


Aware

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Another way Sherlock's return could have gone, But mostly angst, F/M, Flashbacks, Grumpy John, Hurt/Comfort, John seems a bit more vacant than I'd intended in the beginning, M/M, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, Plot Driven, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Sherlock is hurt, Slow Burn, harry is nice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-04-19 21:57:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4762514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sherlock Holmes. Current residence 221B Baker Street, London. Next of kin, Mycroft Holmes. Personal effects, none. It's been—One hour since primary contact, no meaningful response has yet been received.”</p><p>After Sherlock returns from being 'dead' everything seems to settle back into a semblance of routine. That is until a new case is brought up that threatens to fray already fractured relationships. (Description/tags to be updated as story continues.)</p><p>(UNDER REVAMP. Still the same storyline but I've gone back in to edit everything. Sorry to be a massive pain.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. His friend, the rat.

For a split second a gaunt reflection of himself stared back at him. Only for an instant. Then there was water in his eyes. In his nose. In his ears. His mouth. Then the reflection returned, as if reminding him that there was no option of simply switching off this time. That the disconnect he longed for wasn't going to come. Then there was water in his eyes. In his nose. His mouth. Down his throat. Again, the reflection. Water. Choking. The reflection was beginning to get a little blurred. Whether that was from the activity with in the water it lay in or the fact that his vision was beginning to swim just as much as his mind was unclear. Down his throat. Into his lungs.  
He never did get to see the reflection after that. Though that was probably for the best. Too long spent looking at ones reflection leads to madness. And madness was only a short fall away from his current position.  
“--Useless.”  
The air suddenly smelt more acrid than it had previously and he couldn't help but wonder if that had something to do with the acidic taste in his mouth.  
“--Gain tomorrow.”  
His wrists were cold once more and his hands soon followed. Only this time he was treated to a particularly irritating sensation of moisture beading against his skin and settling in every crevice he had. However, upon trying to un-fold these areas, he found that he wasn't able to move quite enough to actually let that happen. This prompted a soft noise of complaint as he tensed the muscles in his numbed arms uselessly.

How long this continued he couldn't say but he knew that the water was still settled in the crevices when he spotted the rat. The rat made him happy. Sometimes he'd feed the rat, should he decide the occasion of food demanded as much. Only he hadn't received any food for a while, not since long before he'd shown his reflection. That wasn't particularly troublesome as the noises of his stomach had stopped a very long time ago. Back before the rat had even started to come past the crack in the floor. The creature eyed him up intelligently before beginning it's little dance towards him. He liked the rat. It's little claws scrabbled against the side of the structure he recalled once referring to as a trough and, after a moment of fighting against the will of gravity, the little creature perched itself on the very brim. It's beady eyes once again turning to look at him. For a moment he considered a smile. People liked smiles. He knew they did. The rat would probably like one too. However upon actually attempting the action he found that the muscles of his face wouldn't do it. He didn't want to scare the rat and so returned his face back to it's usual state, hoping his eyes spoke for him. The rat, after a long moment of simply staring, bent so it's face was out of his view.

_Rats prefer a constant source of water, as do most mammals, this is the sixteenth time this rat has drunk from that trough. There's another water source somewhere. I've been here too long for this rat, who must be secured within the facility with me, to only have gotten something to drink sixteen times. Perhaps that's my way out. Perhaps if I could just--_

The rats head popped back over the edge of the stone structure and, again, he considered the notion of smiling. All other thoughts lost to the ruins of what once had been. Again, the action failed before it had even made itself truly known and he dipped his head. There he found a clear puddle. For a moment he was utterly confused as to how on earth a puddle had spontaneously begun to exist where it hadn't before but was quickly distracted by the reflection murkily staring back at him. When had he grown a beard? It was impossible that that was his own face. With a flinching movement that seemed to pull at every muscle he owed he shot a look as far behind him as he could. To his surprise he found nothing but empty space and the door that constantly kept watch at his back.

_They'll be a time when you know you're growing old too, William. Don't think for a second I don't remember that much. You see this wrinkle here? First one I ever got. I think that makes it just a little special, don't you?_

An odd noise had begun to reverberate around his space. It was displeasing to say the least and the rat seemed to think so to as, at the third guttering splutter, it's head shot away from him and it disappeared from view.

_I hope it'll be peaceful. That's what everyone hopes for, don't they? I should say something better. Something more exciting. But it turns out dying is just a little bit scarier that I was led to believe._

The reflection had begun to try to escape. Little pieces of it's features would shatter momentarily, destroying the placid surface he'd begun to become quite used to. This gradually began to increase in frequency until he decided he ought to just close his eyes. That would be better. Then he wouldn't have to see.

_You great, flummoxing idiot! Most people would have just found another way around, you know. There was absolutely no need to shimmy through the damned window._

The noise hitched for a moment, giving him a chance to readjust himself.

_I think I made quite the entrance, don't you?_

_Quite the entrance my arse. If you require piecing back together you're going to have to find yourself another man for the job, I'm out. Done. Finished._

_Look. That's all very well and good, and I'm sure we'll discuss it at length later, but I do still have something nibbling at my arse. Be a darling?_

Quite without him noticing the noise had transformed into something new and all together more comforting. Granted, the spluttering was still there to a degree but it was accompanied by an irregular snorting sound that felt much better in his chest.

_Jesus. If I'd have known taking this on would have involved staring at your bloody bare rear end for hours on end I'd have taken that trip with Harry. Frankly I can't even understand what the hell happened to make it look like...well...this._

_Come now. You've seen worse. Need I remind you of Mr Peters?_

A short, sharp shot rang through the warm voices that no longer existed to him and the earlier, disquieting noise came to an abrupt end. Instead it was placed with a soft groaning that seemed to have no origin at all. Then the acidic taste was back again, accompanied with a fresh pain to the back of his skull. With slightly bleary vision he watched as the rat disappeared into the confines of the walls before, with a crack, a sharp burning settled into every one of his joints simultaneously and he felt the world of those four walls begin to tip from view.

**********************

“Two dozen coughs, colds, stomach aches and flu shots. Not to mention the itching, the lumps and the discharge.” John rattled off quietly, seemingly talking to no one at all since the space beside him had long been vacated, “The world's just out to show me it's genitals.”

“What's all this about genitals?” A tall woman of around thirty-five returned to her spot on the sofa with mug in hand, “Here, love. You look like death.”  
She received a burdened grunt in response as the mug was lifted from her hands and pressed to tired lips, “Might go back to A&E.” John muttered, grimacing expressively as he burnt his tongue after too hasty a sip.

“Darling, you despise A&E. You know you do. You're just overtired.”

“You sound like your mother.” John stated bluntly, very clearly unwilling to pull himself from the bitter heap he had formed against the sofa cushions.

“She's your mother too Must I keep reminding you?”

“I already had a mother.” The good doctor huffed, his voice betraying the fact that he was acutely aware he was straying into dangerous territory.

Thankfully he received nothing more than a tut, “Behave, John. I know full well you love the woman. You have two mothers and that's all there is to it.” With a short sniff Harry popped to her feet, reaching up to secure her auburn hair away from her neck before crossing the room and picking up the shoe John had discarded there earlier in the throws of his sulk, “Perhaps it's time for a holiday, John. You're looking a little--” Here she turned to regard him coolly, shoelaces falling subject to her indecisive fingers, “Well. Like I said. Death.” With a curt clearing of her throat she moved to return the shoe to it's twin before tossing John a blanket, “You could go down to visit Mother. I'm sure she'd be pleased. And I hear the weather's--”

She was cut off by a rumble of complaint from her younger brother as he all but fell into a heap on his side, blanket following to form a vaguely useful covering, “Too far. Too many trains. Too many Stevens.”

“Steven's lovely. You just need to get to know him--”

John offered a pointedly chosen finger.

Harry huffed quietly, rosy cheeks flaring in indignation for a moment before she flicked on the TV. Electing to just leave him to it, “When you've decided to grow up I'll be in the kitchen. Clara'll be here later so I suggest you put something proper on.” And with that she made her righteous way to the kitchen, leaving John to wallow about in his 'emergency pyjamas' in front of Come Dine with Me.

A number of hours passed without very much incident at all. Excepting the arrival of the ever put together Clara, who'd raised an eyebrow at John's pyjama'd state but said nothing more. Even throughout the arrival of a bowl of soup which had been set in front of John's face. However a small ball of resentment had managed to work it's way up in John's gut. Why exactly it had emerged he wasn't sure but it was there nonetheless and he quickly found himself becoming more and more worked up over the fact to the point that he soon found he couldn't sit still any longer and, with a decisive huff he lunged for the remote and hammered a thumb into the power button. After a moment of sitting back to listen idly to any other sounds that may have been coming from the flat, discovering nothing more than a faint mumbling of another television, he shuffled to his feet. There the world proceeded to swirl unnervingly for a long minute or two, leaving John immobilised until he finally felt stable enough to take a step towards the door. There he faintly realised that he was still wearing his pyjamas and grabbed his coat to remedy the problem before he hunched his shoulders and padded out onto the stairwell.


	2. An influx of voices. (AKA John gets a little prickly.)

“Sherlock Holmes. Current residence 221B Baker Street, London. Next of kin, Mycroft Holmes. Personal effects, none. It's been—One hour since primary contact, no meaningful response has yet been received.”

Everything was really too loud. Far, far too loud. Though he could make out voices surrounding him he couldn't quite determine what exactly was going on. Usually in situations such as those he would retreat to the shallow shelter his mind still managed to sparingly provide him with however the strange numbness of his body was holding him captive and instead he was forced to attempt to make some sense of the situation around him.

“--Mobility will need to be assessed when he regains full consciousness. Mental capability is, as of yet, unclear.”

It was taking a long time for them to do very much at all. It wasn't that he was particularly fond of the attentions he was given, he simply didn't like to have to wait. Frankly, it didn't feel terribly good for his heart.

“--Mr. Holmes?”

Something hot and faintly sticky feeling pressed itself into his shoulder and he did his very best not to flinch away, despite the unusual jolt of discomfort this sent through him.

“Mr. Holmes? Can you hear me?”

The pressure was released and replaced by a soft rasping sound that sounded unnervingly close. As a result he felt his every muscle tense, much to his distaste, and he realised he'd managed to propel himself a small way before something sticky pressed hard against his side. This was certainly unusual. Quite frankly he couldn't remember moving quite so far of his own accord for a long while.

“--To move, Mr. Holmes. You should feel more secure momentarily.”

It only took a split second for his mind to decide it quite liked 'unusual' and he began to further test his new boundaries. This mostly involved twitching the various muscles his body was held together through and realising, with a rush of satisfaction, that everything seemed to be a lot looser than it had been previously. Which, quite frankly, felt very pleasant. Now he could get theoretically get rid of the water, though that no longer appeared to be an issue.

“Alright, be--” _Are you aware that you wiggle about in your sleep?_ “--Secure Mr. Holmes, please?” _It's kind of an odd thing to look at, really. It's no wonder your face is quite so still, you wear it out at night._

A soft short of choking sound began to emanate from somewhere he couldn't quite put his finger on. But, in all honesty, he didn't really care to. The sound stretched his cheeks in a manner they were unaccustomed too, making him feel rather dizzy.

“--If you could just check--”

_Sherlock Holmes! If I find any more foreign bodies in the jam I'm giving back your Christmas present. And before you say something stupid about how that wont be possible, I'll give it to Anderson instead. How's that?_

_No. It's not a book. It was a book once. Stop asking if it's a book._

_Sherlock Holmes? He's off his rocker. Always has been._

_Doesn't really understand people, that one._

_Sherlock, love. You must at least try. For me, please. I know it's unpleasant but it has to be done, sweety._

“Mr. Holmes?”

_Will whomever is making all that racket please be quiet? That's—How did you?_

“--Seizing. Now.”

_He's a machine, John. He doesn't work like we do._

_No really, that's—Well it's wonderful. Amazing._

_Please. He's my friend. I'm a doctor. Let me--. Please._

**********************

“John?”

Sod it. The stairwell had been a little colder than he'd have liked, especially on his poor feet.

“John? What the hell are you doing? Get back inside.”

“I am inside.” John pointed out bluntly, gesturing down to where he had been needlessly wiping his bare feet on the welcome mat, “Just...fancied a breath of fresh-air.”

For a short moment Harry simply stood, one eyebrow making a break for her hairline, before she rolled her shoulders slightly and moved forwards to close the door, “You're losing it, love.” She muttered, clearly not really expecting a response as John habitually shifted to avoid touching her on her way past, “Someone's on the phone for you, something about Baker Street.”

In a reflection of his sisters, John's eyebrows chose instead to curl themselves towards his eyes which were seemingly having some trouble processing what Harry was saying, “What about Baker Street?”

“They're still on the phone, love. They wouldn't say anything beyond that to me.” With just about as much subtly as John's dumbfounded expression, Harry locked the door before pocketing the key, “In the kitchen. Clara's upstairs, it's all yours.”

The cold seemed to have gone to John's brain as he simply stood staring at where the key had disappeared for a long moment before listlessly turning and padding his way to the kitchen. Leaving his sister to take out her worry on the inside of her lip before she slid another bolt into place against the door and breathed a soft sigh.

“I don't understand.” The cold, familiar tones of whomever it was Mycroft had working the phone for him now (John never did catch his name) weren't aiding John's mildly frazzled senses any. Nor was the rather large tear in the wallpaper that was holding his eye-line, “Who's this coming from?”

“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. It's imperative you arrive within the hour.”

“Mr. Holmes?” For a moment John's chest tightened, an involuntary action every time anyone mentioned the damned name, “You can tell Mr. Holmes-” His voice had turned uncharacteristically cold, another involuntary reaction, “That I'm done, Mr.--Whatever your name is. I'm done running around after Holmes'. Tell him to leave my phone alone too, whilst your at it. I'm not completely brain dead.” He shifted from one foot to another, his conscience tugging at his gut, “Thank you.”

“Sir, I'm sorry but I'll have to ins--”

With slightly more aggression than was necessarily warranted the phone hit it's holder, leaving John to fume quietly as he heard his mobile chirp to life somewhere within the flat, undoubtedly heralding Mycroft's distaste at his lack of manners. Frankly, though, he didn't care. He'd had enough of the man watching him. Honestly he wasn't even sure why he was continuing to bother, it wasn't as if he was of any use to him any more.

“John, love?”

“Leave it, Harry.” With an expression of hollowed frustration, John scowled his way across the living area to collect his shoes.

“John.”

"I wont be long, I just need...I'd just like a minute to myself, honestly. Do you think you'll be o--"  
  
"John."

John caught sight of the man before Harry could explain and, for a moment he childishly considered making a run for it but he knew that it wouldn't be worth the trouble. He'd probably just be shot for his efforts.

“Mycroft.”

“Good evening, Dr. Watson.”

With a barely disguised expression of sheer frustration John dumped his shoe back on top of the other and crossed his arms across his chest, eyeing up the remaining Holmes brother quietly.

“Quite.” Mycroft cleared his throat slightly, discomfort very briefly registering in his features before he continued, “I'm sorry to have to intrude during your time of recovery, Harriet.”

Harry's expression shot to one of blatant confusion and she opened her mouth to respond but was swiftly cut off as Mycroft continued, undaunted.

“But I really must press how important it is for you to be involved at this time, Dr. Watson.”

John glanced over at his sister for a split second, his expression shifting into one of mild guilt before his eyes steeled over and he was back looking at the elder Holmes, "Involved in what, Mycroft." His expression seemed to square to match his shoulders, “If you're simply trying for dramatic affect, it's failing.”

“Behave, John.” Harry shifted slightly, her eyes skimming over Mycroft before returning to John with a slightly uncertain expression.

"I'm simply trying for tact, Dr. Watson."

“Perhaps I'll..." Harry shifted to run her nails over her hand, her eyes flitting over John's features, "Should I...I'll make us some tea.”

“Thank you, Harriet.” Mycroft responded a little too quickly. Inclining his head towards an armchair as Harry hesitantly left the room, beginning to move towards it without really being invited to do so, “I assume you're now in possession of your senses, Doctor?” He settled back against the frayed material, umbrella moving to sit oddly across his knee, "If I recall you were somewhat absent for a while after my brothers leaving."

When he received no response beyond John moving in a uncertainly purposeful fashion to sit on top of the blanket he had discarded their earlier, he ran a thumb over his ring before continuing coolly, “In any case. It would seem that it has fallen to me to deliver the news of my brothers continued existence.”

The phone chirped to life once more from the kitchen and John gave a very obvious twitch, bringing back the frown, “If you're about to spout some bullshit about how he's 'living on in our thoughts' I swear to God I'll--”

Both men turned towards the kitchen as Harry appeared in the doorway, her eyes glistening slightly as they flicked between the two men, “John. I--" She cleared her throat slightly, her eyes drifting to the wall behind her brothers head, "There's someone on the phone for you.”

Something in her expression tugged at a memory John couldn't quite place but he pushed it inside in favour of easing himself to his feet and, after a moment of studying Harry's features with an expression of quiet concern, he edged his way past her and into the kitchen. Leaving Harry to fidget uncomfortably for a long moment, torn between retreating into the kitchen and trying desperately to ignore John's conversation or hovering with the man whose name she had barely caught. Eventually she decided it was probably about time to face Clara, perhaps help with the last of her stuff, and reluctantly headed for the stairs. Though not before receiving a slightly frightening smile from the elder Holmes, who was doing his very best to be polite.

“Hello?” John licked his lips slightly, “This is Doctor Watson speaking?”

There was a long moment of pause before a slightly strained sounding voice sounded from the other end of the line, “You sound uncertain. I assume you haven't suffered a head injury of sorts?”

For a moment all John could hear was a mildly painful ringing in his ears as a voice that should, by all accounts, not be coming through his phone. Perhaps he had finally slipped.

“--John?”

John had to press the phone against his ear to actually hear what the voice was trying to say as, even through the ringing, it sounded mildly like it was coming through some sort of filter.

“--hn, I need you to listen. I'm aware this isn't ideal.”

John suddenly found he didn't really have control of his voice as, quite without warning, his legs deposited him very precariously onto the edge of a stool beside him. A great rush of breath leaving him as his mind struggled to keep up with the demands John was trying to push through it.

“John.”

Everything rather suddenly became too much and the doctor found himself having to bend forehead to knee as he clutched at the reciever, "Who is this?" 

"Please, John I--" A soft grunting sound cut the voice off, "We don't have time. You know who this is." A siren sounded in the back off the call, all but cutting the voice off and John had to strain further to hear him, "You can come and yell, if you must. But I'm soaked through. I wasn't aware you'd be--"  
  
"Where are you, Sherlock." John's voice came out oddly flat, sending a spark of cold through his hunched frame.

"Baker Street." He cleared his throat slightly, his voice fading even further into the space between them, "Or, near enough."

For a short moment John could do nothing but breathe quietly into his knees before, very slowly, he sat himself up, "Stay where you are." He began to slide his way from the stool, "Stay where you are. I'm--I'll be there soon. I--" He grit his teeth, vision swimming as he reached his full height, "Just...Stay as warm as you can. I'll be there soon."

"Okay."  
  
John took a short breath in before settling the phone back into the crook of it's holder, his features hardening once more as he shut off the parts of his mind that were focused on anything other than getting to Sherlock and headed for the door.

 


	3. Assisted over the threshold.

Having completely ignored whatever Mycroft said as he made his way past, John called up to Harry to inform her that he would be back to make dinner (though something in his mind faintly wondered if that would actually be true) and began to search the flat for a pair of socks. Emergency or not his feet were terribly sensitive, he didn't want them to be torn to shreds by the time he got to the pavement.

“You've a set of odd priorities, Dr. Watson.” Mycroft observed, watching him move about the living area from where he'd stood, “I trust Harriet wont mind if you borrowed a pair?” Something shifted in his eyes for a split-second as he gestured to a pair of socks which were entirely covered in little hearts and smiling rabbits, though they had clearly never been worn.

With a huff John crossed the room to grab the aforementioned articles of clothing, tugging them on and seemingly admiring his feet for a moment before something hit the bottom of the stairs. Causing both men to turn towards the source of the thumping.

“You're not going out in your pyjamas, John.” Thankful that Harry was, for once, making better decisions than he seemed to be John crossed to pick up the clothing that he'd been wearing when he'd arrived a couple of days previously and began to change then and there.

This gave Mycroft little option but to turn around politely, providing him with the opportunity to watch John's mobile as it continued to go unattended. Hardly surprising, by his count he hadn't touched it in weeks. Nevertheless he bent to pocket the device before turning back to a dressed John Watson. Who, he remarked inwardly, was still wearing the socks. Despite having been delievered a better option.

“Shoes, Dr. Watson.”

Frankly this was all mildly reminiscent of a time decades previously when a small, and entirely inpatient, Sherlock would often leave their home unattended dressed in nothing but bee adorned pyjamas and Mycroft would be sent after him with suitable clothing. That was, until they secured the deadlock a little higher on the door and solved the problem until his teenage years.

“Here.” Mycroft watched coldly as John twitched at the sudden invasion of his space. Seemingly Mycroft's reverie had altered his spatial awareness somewhat as he faintly realised he was holding the his umbrella mere inches from John's nose. Though, he supposed, it didn't matter terribly. He hadn't actually struck the man, “It wouldn't do to have both of you freeze.”

For a moment John did just that, his expression narrowing into one of a confused frown as he tried to determine Mycroft's motive, after all he was usually bloody well attached to the thing. John had often theorised it was covering some sort of a limp, then again it was entirely feasible that the pole up his arse was accountable for his slightly unusual gait, “I assume it's going to...I don't know...track me the entire way?” He asked, gingerly removing the thing from Mycroft's outstretched hand, “Or blow up if I take a wrong turn?”

“It's an umbrella, Dr. Watson. It's primary purpose is to keep you dry. I assume you've operated one before?”

Berk. John bit into his cheek but said nothing, instead opting to head for the door. Though, of course, the damned umbrella was just a little too long for him to hold it by the handle. Leaving him to sort of cradle it awkwardly as he negotiated the locks, “Damn it, Harry.” He muttered to himself, faintly recalling the key having entered a pocket at some point.

At this rate Sherlock would have melted before he could get to him. His mind reeled slightly at the possibility, admittedly predominantly at the idea of actually being able to 'get to him' but frankly Sherlock being the Wicked Witch of the West seemed a little more realistic at that point.

“When you're quite done admiring the coat rack, I believe my brother requested your assistance?”

Turning to find the door open shouldn't have come as a surprise, of course Mycroft was in possession of a skeleton key. Frankly he'd always been surprised that Sherlock wasn't, “I'm well aware, thank you Mycroft.” John zipped up his coat before ducking out into the rain, which was beating horizontally against him as he struggled with the umbrella.

After a moment Mycroft stepped out beside him, squinting through the rain as he pressed a button on the handle of the damned thing and it sprung into a shelter that would have been helpful a handful of minutes previously.

“Right.” John huffed softly, holding the umbrella up in an attempt to block any more of the rain from hitting him, “Erm, thank you, Mycroft. Are you sure you don't--”

“I'll be fine, Doctor.” Mycroft had to raise his voice slightly to be heard over the rain as he plucked his clothing away from his skin, watching as John nodded slightly before turning and attempting to hail a cab.

However he didn't stick around long enough to note the doctor turning around about a minute later to discover Mycroft gone. Undoubtedly having disappeared into some nice warm (not to mention invisible) car. The berk.

*************************

“You've lost weight.”

Though he couldn't recall how long he'd been secured to the bed, he was aware that he'd seen his brother multiple times. However, for whatever reason, the elder man had yet to actually look at him. It was beginning to grow slightly disheartening. Often the thought that he must now be horribly deformed came to mind, but Mycroft had yet to confirm nor deny that one either.  
  
“Try and be quiet for a minute, Sherlock.”

He never listened. In fact, no one did. Or hadn't, as far as he could recall. Frankly, it was more that a little irritating. But he'd be damned if he wasn't anything but persistant.

“You've lost weight, Mycroft. When did you lose weight?”

“Sherlock, please.”

He couldn't quite find the right words to express his irritation and so released a burst of air through his nose, causing him to flinch momentarily at the pain, before he continued his attempts to free his hands from their restraints. This was made particularly difficult due to the fact that his fingers felt as if they were wrapped in cotton and therefore couldn't seem to gain any purchase against whatever it was that was holding him. Another source of frustration.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft reached out in an attempt to still his brother, hoping he'd eventually settle to sleep once more and give his poor vocal chords a rest. In all honesty the sounds he kept making were a little unnerving, though he suspected they were intended to be words he had no way of identifying them, “Sherlock, please. Get some rest now. We'll talk tomorrow.”

Much to the elder Holmes' dismay Sherlock continued to tug at his bindings, which frankly were ridiculous given the circumstances. So, after standing to ensure the window was secured, he returned to his brothers side and reached out to rest his hand against a patch of clear skin on his forearm, “Sherlock.”

Finally the detectives eyes actually seemed to connect with his and he found himself pausing for a second in response to the glimmer of panic behind them, “I'm going to undo these, alright?” For a moment it seemed his words had, once again, fallen on deaf ears. However as he glanced down to begin doing so he noted Sherlock had stilled, all except his fingers which seemed to be stretching towards his wrist. Of course this could very well be due to some sort of spasm and so Mycroft decided it was best to simply ignore the fact as he gingerly untied his fastenings.

“Ther--” He flinched slightly as Sherlock grabbed at his wrist. It wasn't that it hurt, it was simply somewhat of a surprise to see him actually in control of his extremities, “There you go.” He finished a little lamely, rubbing the back of the hand that was still clamped just above his own.

“Sherlock, I'm not going anywhere.” He awkwardly settled himself back into the chair beside the bed, both his hands still occupied with Sherlock's, “Perhaps you should try and get some sleep. I'll sit with you.”  


For a full five minutes Sherlock continued to cling to him as he gradually shuffled himself into a more comfortable position, his face clearly contorting in pain multiple times and Mycroft found himself uselessly rubbing at the back of his hand in an attempt to help him out. Thankfully once he seemed to be fairly settled he relinquished his hold, allowing the blood to flow back to the elder Holmes' fingers, and slurred something before his eyes clawed their way closed and Mycroft felt safe in assuming he was well on his way to sleep.

*************************

The umbrella was deeply irritating in the wind and, though John recalled a time when he would have been able to keep a hold of the thing without problem, he wasn't quite as strong as he had been and his small stature wasn't helping any as the wind attempted to tear the thing from his fingers. Eventually he decided it would just be best to put it down, even that was difficult, and shove it under his arm as he peered through sheets of rain.

Sherlock had said he was _near_ Baker Street. This proved to be thoroughly unhelpful as, having reached 221B, he was absolutely nowhere to be seen. Bloody fantastic. It was then John also realised his phone was most likely still at Harry's, deposited somewhere upon his arrival though for the life of him he couldn't remember where. Though honestly he wasn't even sure if he still had Sherlock's phone number, it was very likely he could have changed it during his time aw--

John's phone buzzed in his pocket. Which was odd, considering it really shouldn't have been there. Nevertheless he felt a little bubble of relief rise in his throat and, after a moment of patting his coat, he pulled out the device and held it directly in front of his eyes.

_Have you killed Mycroft? - SH_

For a moment John continued to stare, dumbfounded at his phone. It all just felt a little too real. Though, he supposed it was.

Wiping rain drops from the screen of his phone to his best ability, John glanced up to see if he could catch sight of the elusive detective. Though, unsurprisingly this didn't prove terribly useful, and so instead he began to punch back his response.

_Where are you?_

It took a moment of hasty droplet removing before Sherlock responded and John glanced up to squint through the rain once more, craning his neck around to view what he could of the street before simply returning his attention to his phone.

_You passed me. Wait where you are. - SH_

Part of John wondered if he were being set up for something. Honestly he wouldn't put it past the majority of people he and Sherlock had faced whilst he was still alive. Or...Well John wasn't sure what the correct terminology to use was, really. He supposed he'd wait and see.

What if he were kidnapped and Harry relapsed. That wouldn't do at all. Not after they'd spent so long getting her clean again.

“John.”

It was everything he could do to stop himself from visibly jumping at the voice from behind him. Instead he squared his shoulders before, with a horrid binding tightness pressed against his ribs, he twisted to face whomever it was.

“Now, John before you--”  
  
From there everything cut out into the ringing once more and John was left with nothing to do but stare at the sodden man before him, taking note of every feature in order to ascertain what exactly he was looking at.

“Here.”Sherlock's lips stopped moving rather abruptly, his tongue darting out to wet them (needlessly, given the fact that rain had done more than a good enough job for him) as he looked at John in genuine confusion, “Sorry?”  
  
“Here.” John repeated, seemingly regaining the use of his arm as he thrust the umbrella towards him in a fashion that made it look particularly unwieldy, “You should—I don't erm--” He cleared his throat slightly, making another gesture with the umbrella, “Here.”

After a moments pause Sherlock reached out with his left hand, his eyes still skimming John's features for some sign of...anything, really. This wasn't how he'd assumed it would go. Not by a long shot. Everyone else had shouted, or thrown up.

“Sher--” John cleared his throat, the name getting caught somewhere. So he simply abandoned it, “You're supposed to--” He gestured to the umbrella which Sherlock was cuddling absently to his chest, “It's for, you know, the uh...the rain.”

“Yes. Right. No, I know. The rain.” After a moment of painful fumbling the detective managed to get the umbrella opened and, rather stiffly, supported it above his head, “Is there--” He glanced behind him, “Am I missing something?”  


John gave a rather hapless shrug, his eyes now swimming with something that Sherlock could barely make out through the rain. Much to his dismay.

“It's just--” Again, he turned to glance behind him. The muscles in his neck voicing their complaint unashamedly, “Well.” He licked his lip again, a habit he'd need to quell just as soon as he was able, “This is Mycroft's. Either you've--” He paused to sniff, regretting it immediately as it seemed to break whatever was holding those slightly distant looking eyes to his face and left him with the top of John's head. Perhaps jumping to the point of the matter would be better, “I assume you're not sleeping with him.”

This gained a glimmer of reaction from the John Sherlock had, admittedly, been expecting as the doctors features crumpled into something that could only be disguised as mildly watery looking disgust, “Mycroft?”

“No. Quite.” The shift from one foot to another must have caused a flinch but Sherlock was determined not to pay it mind, “I just...Is he dead?”

“Yes, Sherlock. Whilst _you_ were dead I decided to murder your brother and took his umbrella as a trophy. I run England now. Unsurprisingly it's all gone to shit. Can't you tell?” The sudden harsh tone to his voice was not one the good doctor had been expecting and he tipped his head back slightly against the rain in the hopes of washing it away.

Sherlock's eyes wistfully followed John's, perhaps hoping to find some sort of assistance as to where to go next, before they fell back to his face. For a long moment he couldn't think of a thing to say but, rather unfortunately, his body seemed to settle on something before he did and he found himself gagging around a horribly forced laugh. One which brought John's eyes back from just below the heavens to study him with a barely disguised look of distaste.

“Yeah, anyway.” He reached into his coat pocket to produce a key, feeling momentarily pleased that that too hadn't been discarded in a huff, “He loaned me it. Didn't ask why.” This was said as he moved past Sherlock, shaking his head slightly in an attempt to dislodge some of the hair from his forehead before simply giving up and moving to stand beside the door to 221B, “I suggest a change of clothes. Once you're a little warmer a warm bath or something might be an idea. You look like shit.”

Wordlessly, Sherlock followed the smaller man to the door. The umbrella falling uselessly to rest against his shoulder as he reached up to run a hand through the sodden curls that hadn't quite managed to grow back towards his forehead just yet, willing his mind to give him something to go off of.

“--Eat too. Something reasonable. Honestly I'll be surprised if all that sniffing isn't the beginning of a cold, I know what--” John decisively cut himself off as he pushed open the door and stood aside, eyelashes now doing very little to keep the rain from his eyes as he stared into the hallway, “Well, anyway. I'm sure you can keep the umbrella, don't fancy seeing Mycroft again any time soon.”

“Harry.”

Both men were making very poor use of the immediate warmth provided by the open door. Instead they were making rather a forlorn looking frame for the light that was struggling to seep out into the darkened expanse of pavement they both occupied.

“What?”  


“Harry. Wish Harriet well, from me.”

In hindsight this had most certainly been the wrong thing to say as, with a soft sound that Sherlock wouldn't mind never hearing again, John's open hand connected with the side of his face. Providing him with a rather lovely expanse of stars before his legs failed beneath him and he found himself rather unceremoniously dumped back into 221B. Head first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, I love a stilted conversation. There's something so delightfully awkward about it.
> 
> Oh, and thank you everyone for your lovely words/kudos'/bookmarks! You guys are fab :-).


	4. The underestimatation of an umbrella.

Bloody buggering hell. John bent to see if he could be of any assistance to the sprawled detective, guilt lodging itself firmly in his rib cage as he noted just how sickly the younger man truly looked in the slightly better lighting, “Jeez, Sherlock.” John shifted forward on his haunches, his leg bemoaning every slight movement he willed it to make, “Sherlock. I'm sorry. Can you hear me?” He gingerly ran a hand across the back of the other man's head, trying to ensure he hadn't done any drastic damage to his skull. However before he could go so far as to check anything else Sherlock gave a low, almost inaudible mumbling and began to very gradually shift himself into a sitting position. Something which John did his best to help him with but only seemed to be making everything worse as he watched a faint mark of where his hand had been come up blotchily against Sherlock's otherwise paled complexion, "Sherlock, I'm sorry. I didn't-- Oh hell.”

“It's fine, John.” Sherlock took a moment to inhale deeply through his nose, “Probably deserved as much.”

“No, Sherlock. That was--I'm most certainly in the wrong." The doctor took a moment to assess Sherlock's features before shifting to sit on his leg, pain be damned, "Will you let me take a look, at least? I don't--Well I'd feel awful if I'd given you a head injury and not known.”

"It's fine." Sherlock stated once more but did shuffle a little closer to John at his request, "It's a relief, frankly. I was worried you'd gone soft." He flinched slightly as John's fingers brushed a healing scar, more out of habit than out of any physical pain, but the concern in John's face prompted him to move on rather quickly, "It's fine, John. Really. Nothing new. No head injuries."

Guilt was becoming rapidly more and more obvious across John's features and he balled his hand up against it's counterpart as he studied Sherlock carefully, "I'm--"  
  
"I know, John." With a great attempt to cover up any semblance of discomfort, Sherlock began to ease himself to his feet, "Please do stop repeating yourself.

Scared to touch him again, John struggled to his feet to deal with the umbrella instead. His eyes remaining, rather unhelpfully, focused on Sherlock. Watching him as he eased himself up the wall with the vague notion to catch him should he fall, “Ah-Bugger! Bloody-- arse!” John looked down to where his thumb had become helplessly snagged within the mechanism of the umbrella, grunting softly as he watched a rather displeasing trail of blood begin to make it's way down his hand.

For a moment neither man did anything but tremble quietly as Sherlock fought for a reasonable amount of vision and John began to go into a mild state of shock. It had been somewhat of a trying day, after all. His mind seemed to have finally had enough.

Eventually Sherlock seemed to deem himself upright enough to assist and he made his way gingerly to John's side, “Okay.” He mumbled, just wanting to block out the sound of John's teeth chattering, “Right. Hang on.”

With less warning than John would have liked, Sherlock reached down and pushed the button to put the umbrella up once more. Watching mildly as his mind struggled to catch up over John's explosive choice of language as his thumb was freed, none to gently mind you, and he bent over slightly to cradle the poor digit.

“Now--” The doctors voice was strained as he released his hand to assess his wound, “That I probably did deserve.” He muttered, pulling at the torn flesh gingerly as he attempted to get a hold of himself.

“Sorry, John.”  
  
The oddly timed statement sounded so distant in their close proximity that John found himself frowning up at the detective in mild concern, his thumb going momentarily untended, “It's fine.” He murmured, enclosing his thumb once more, “You're sure you're feeling okay? Not dizzy? Sick?”

Sherlock shook his head, bowing it slightly as he took a step away from John. Having finally realised that he was probably just a little too close for comfort, “I suppose we should put Mrs. Hudson at ease.”

Again, John simply continued to frown. Blood gradually beginning to worm it's way through his fingers as he did his best to apply an even amount of pressure with his damned left hand, “Mrs. Hudson?”

“We've broken into her building.” Sherlock eyes clicked to the blood on John's hand and something in his expression twisted minutely, “She'll be—It would be unfortunate to cause some sort of stress related...incident.”

John nodded slowly, glancing towards Mrs. Hudson's door before he followed Sherlock's eye-line to his hand and dropped them towards his stomach. Hoping to avert the detectives attention away from the fact that he was slowly losing the battle against his hand, the tremor loosening his grip to the point that his blood was really just flowing freely.

“Though you should probably tend to that thumb.” Sherlock's voice was beginning to crack and John took a moment to study his features, faintly wondering if he was about to cry there and then. Though the stoic expression he was met with suggested that it most likely wasn't as simple as that, “You're beginning to...leak.”

The doctor glanced down at his hands, feeling a stab of shame at just how much his hand was quivering, “Right. Yeah that's probably for the best.” He glanced towards the stairs, considering his next move, “You'll be okay down here?”

“Go and tend to your thumb, John.”

With one last look up at Sherlock John gave a slight nod before attempting to squeeze his thumb a little tighter as he headed for the stairs, hoping that things hadn't gone too awry upstairs in his absence.

**********************

For a long moment after John left him in the hallway, Sherlock simply stared at the spot of blood he'd left behind. Frankly he felt horrible. Not that he ever felt particularly 'pleasant' but every one of his organs now felt as if it were being violently pushed up against his rib cage and, though he was sure it must have had a psychological root, he had no idea what emotion to attribute it to.

Had John been in shock? What on earth was a person to do when someone went into shock? Sherlock faintly considered the shock blanket he'd once stolen for a case. He was sure he'd left it behind. Though, of course, there was a very real possibility that nothing he'd left behind was still going to be there. It wouldn't be fair to assume that John would keep it all, after all.

Sherlock sighed quietly, something rasping his his throat as he did so, before pointing a toe to smear John's blood across the floor. As if that were doing anything to remove it. However he seemed to consider the problem solved and so moved on to gingerly knock against the door to 221A, a pained breath rattling sharply through his teeth as his right hand managed to make an escape from his pocket to perform the task. Damned habit.

With a soft sniffling sound, Sherlock started to very gingerly shove the bandages that just about made up a hand back into his pocket. Relying entirely on a faint recollection that Mrs. Hudson always took a good eight minutes to get to the door, eleven if she was sleeping. Useless information. His mind was full of it.

“John, love? You're terribly late.”  
  
By his count it could only have been six minutes, at the very most. Yet there she was rattling all those damned chains as she spoke without seeing who she was actually talking to, a habit Sherlock faintly recalled trying to convince her out of.

“And it's chucking it down. I hope you remembered your coat. I know--” She closed the door, presumably to release the chains, “--Mary but you really should-” With an expression of entirely blatant surprise, Mrs Hudson took a step backwards from where she had finally managed to get the door completely open, “Oh.”

“Sorry for the--” Sherlock paused, gritting his teeth as he forcibly shoved the remainder of his hand back into his pocket, “The uh—intrusion.”

“I--” Mrs. Hudson tugged her dressing gown further around herself, watching Sherlock with an expression he was struggling to discern. After a moment she leaned in slightly and the detective almost reached out to catch her, afraid she was about to topple over right in front of him, “I've not completely lost my marbles, have I?” She asked quietly, eyeing up the man before her, “I recall attending a funeral. Don't tell me that was another dream.”

The feeling of something hot pooling against his cheek caught Sherlock by surprise and, with a soft frown, he reached up to gingerly dab at it. Briefly wondering if John had somehow managed to get blood on his face, "I'd say unless you've been indulging in-" His voice caught in his throat, which was a disturbing development, "Any more of that scotch you keep in there-"

“Oh, love.”

He glanced back towards Mrs. Hudson as her face softened into something that only made his own face crumple further as his fingers came away wet, "That it likely wasn't a dream." The detective finished lamely, wiping his fingers against the lapel of his coat.

“Sherlock, love.” Mrs. Hudson almost reached out to touch him but seemed to think better of it at the last minute and instead stood aside to allow him access to her flat, should he choose it, “Do you want to come and sit for a bit? John's visiting his sister right now, I'm afraid.”

For a moment Sherlock stood, shifting from one swollen foot to another before he seemed to decide all at once and strode his way inside, stopping almost as suddenly as he'd started to move once he'd reached the little kitchen Mrs. Hudson seemed to be storing a wide variety of cake tins in.

“Sherlock?” After gingerly shutting the door, Mrs. Hudson smoothed out her dressing gown before following the spectre of a man into her flat, “You're not feeling poorly, are you? I'm really not strong enough to catch you, dear.”

Sherlock shook his head slightly, the dim light from a small window above the kitchen cabinets bouncing oddly through his curls as he did so. With a soft sniffling he then, giving into the ache in his knees, he folded himself into one of the mildly mismatched kitchen chairs. Taking the opportunity to run a hand over his cheeks, examining the wetness on his fingers for a moment before gingerly wiping them down his front.

“Here, love.”

A box of tissues made their way into Sherlock's, newly slightly limited, field of vision and he glanced up momentarily at the woman beside him before seizing a couple of tissues and pressing them to his nose. Finding he had to keep his gaze lowered so as to avoid any further tears from staining his cheeks.

“I am going to need an explanation for all of this at some point, Sherlock.” The sound of chair legs scraping across the floor alerted the detective to the fact that she was joining him, “Understood?”

“Of course.” Sherlock's voice was embarrassingly thick and he took a moment to clear his throat before attempting to sit up a little straighter in the chair, “If you need to go back to bed, please do. I assure you, this is only a temporary...” He paused to dab at his nose again, “Outburst.”

“Perhaps a cup of tea'll help, hm?”

Sherlock rolled his shoulders slightly, stifling a wince into his tissue. However before he could respond one way or another the sound of very faint voices from upstairs completely diverted his attention to the ceiling. "Sherlock, love?" With an action that was slightly too hasty for his own good, Sherlock brushed the tears from his cheeks. His eyelashes fluttering rapidly against his cheeks as he attempted to keep the tears at bay long enough to attempt to deduce who exactly John might be talking to. "I'll just see if I can find you something to nibble on. You look famished." Sherlock barely noticed as Mrs. Hudson got to her feet, instead he was beginning to become terribly frustrated as his mind continued to draw up nothing but entirely useless pieces of information. And that damned rat. Frankly he couldn't even remember where he'd seen the rat, it just wouldn't leave him be. He narrowed his eyes slightly as the volume of the voice/voices(?) rose to an extend that began to cause his vision to pin-hole. Something which he'd discovered was a direct reponse of his mind beginning to receede back into areas that he had yet to fully address. 

“Excuse me a moment, wont you?"

Without really waiting for a response, Sherlock set a hand on Mrs. Hudson's arm before making for the door. Feeling a muscle twinge in his face as he rather forgot to ease the tension that would gradually build there without his express attention. Though, frankly, the twitch could wait if it meant soothing the niggling need to solve whatever it was that was happening upstairs. The thought that this was his first case since what probably should have been his last cropped up momentarily but he'd never been one to give in to such poorly timed moments of reflection and so made short work of pushing it aside before, with a rush of something that faintly resembled adrenaline, he began to ease himself up the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Mrs H. He'll stop for that biscuit at some point, I'm sure.
> 
> Once again I'd like to thank you all for reading/kudosing/bookmarking/commenting and all that jazz! Sorry about the slight cliffhanger at the end of this one, I hope it's not too irriating!
> 
> (Whoops forgot to add the very beginning of this chapter...I haven't got anyone to beta this so you'll have to excuse me.)


	5. A little sleep is in order.

“-- By the end of the week.”

Sherlock paused at the top of the stairs, subtly trying to catch his breath. A little more information regarding John's situation would probably serve him well, he had plenty of need to pause. The fact that he was out of breath from climbing a flight of stairs was neither here nor there.

“She's not--No. I--Yeah.”

The sound of John limping across the living room was a familiar one and Sherlock quietly became aware of a soft, tugging feeling somewhere within his chest that he wasn't quite sure what to equate to as he listened. Something which really wasn't terribly productive when he was attempting to collate information.

“I know.”

Either the doctor had lost enough blood to be openly ranting to himself or he was, in fact, alone in the flat. It seemed likely that he was talking to Harriet, his voice bore that familiar stretch of frustration that Sherlock had become to associate with their fortnightly phone calls. So, since said phone calls had never been of any considerable threat to him, the detective decided he'd most likely be safe to enter the flat.

However he hadn't accounted for the sudden emotional rush that doing so would bring about and, as a result, it hit him square in the face. Sending him reeling as his mind took it's opportunity to tug him back to the most recent memories that he'd began to push back under the surface.

***

Much to his surprise he had seemingly been freed from the damned restraints during the time he'd spent under the influence of his medication, something which Sherlock decided to take full advantage of as he began to lever himself to his feet. The horrid rush that came with the motion only posing a minor issue as he finally felt the strength of his own two legs beneath him. Perhaps he'd go back to 221B. Back to John. Though now that this goal was almost within reach it suddenly occurred to him that John might not even be in 221B. After all, he had been assured that a number of months had passed since he'd departed. That was plenty of time for a person to uproot themselves entirely.

With a soft huff of breath, Sherlock lowered himself back onto the bed. His mind clouding with something that faintly resembled confusion as he set about trying to weigh up his options. Unfortunately nothing of any great use came to him. Leaving him feeling horribly blank as he gradually proceeded to lower himself back onto his side, deciding to let his mind sit for a moment. Perhaps it'd be of more use to him then.

***

“Sherlock?”

He flinched slightly as something warm wrapped itself about his fingers but instantly fell into habit and stilled, not wanting to cause any further upset until he was entirely sure of what was going on.

“Sherlock. Look at me.”

Considering the fact that he wasn't really in any place to argue, Sherlock obediently allowed his gaze to drift to the source of the voice. Drifting into a hazy focus as he became acutely aware that John was holding his hand.

“I'm not about to go anywhere, John.” This seemed to be entirely the wrong thing to say as the doctors features knotted into something that made Sherlock feel mildly guilty, “Needless to say, you can let go.” He insisted, pulling his fingers away from the warmth of the other man as he waited for his mind began to recreate his surroundings for him.

“Sherlock, I really think I should check your head.”

Sherlock blinked twice. He'd left the hospital hours ago. He'd found John. John was still living at 221B. He'd yet to explain his absence. That would have to be done at some point. His eyes fell to the phone in John's hand which was still primed beside his ear, “You have a phone call to finish. It can wait.”

"Sherlock, you're--"

“Finish your phone call, John.”

Having been studying Sherlock's features as they gradually worked themselves into a highly blanketed expression of irritation, John decided it would probably best to oblige. Not wanting to make anything worse by causing undue stress. So he gingerly reached out to take the detectives arm, wanting to make sure he was steadied, before gesturing towards what had once been 'his' armchair, “Sit down for a minute then, hm?” He felt a mild burst of relief as Sherlock began to move with him, though he thankfully didn't seem to need his support a great deal, “Can I get you anything before I go? Tea?”

Sherlock flexed his arm under John's fingers as he sat, suddenly feeling concerned that he'd note the muscle mass he'd lost during his time away and start to fuss, “I'm fine.” He tried for a reassuring half-smile as John released him, then realised that was probably uncharacteristic and tried for a more stoic expression instead. Though this was, predictably, somewhat interrupted as he awkwardly eased his bandaged back onto the cushions, “Take care of whomever that is.”

Thankfully John didn't seem to note the conflict in the detectives expression as he nodded, casting one last appraising look over the excessively lithe frame before him before starting up the stairs. This allowed the detective a moment to shift about to attempt to get comfortable, his mind pushing back for a moment before it gradually relented enough to let him settle. Something which the aching in his muscles took to with great abandon and he sound found himself going lax where he sat.

**********************

Predictably, Mary was less than pleased at having been ignored. This was something that was only really added to by the fact that John's mind couldn't come up with any sort of a reasonable excuse, he somehow doubted he'd be believed if he started babbling about Sherlock rising from the dead. Thus bringing about a couple of minutes of him muttering half-apologies and promises to 'meet up soon' before he was met with a harsh ringing in his ear. Unfortunately as he brought the device down to look at it, he discovered that his hands wouldn't quite stretch to the slightly more intricate task of locking the device and so was forced to simply throw the damned thing onto his bed before he turned to make his way downstairs.

However he suddenly found that some part of him really wasn't willing to go any further and, as a result, found himself staring dully at the back of the door. His vision beginning to pin-hole as the prospect of juggling a disgruntled maybe-girlfriend, a recovering sister, a dead friend and a job that was slipping through his fingers began to press itself onto his shoulders. Bringing about a sharp stabbing where he'd been shot as he decided it would probably be best just to settle himself onto the floor for a moment. After all, he hadn't eaten lunch. His blood sugar would probably be less than at a desirable level. It wouldn't do to faint now.

Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on how it was considered, the doctor only managed a moment of relative rest before his mind flipped to fret over the silence downstairs. He'd never known Sherlock to be silent. Then again, he'd never known him to be dead either. Still he found himself rising to his feet once more as his ears strained to pick up any sort of movement from beneath him, his leg twisting painfully for a split-second before he took a steadying breath in and proceeded to limp his way towards the stairs. His back mercifully shifting from hunched to ram-rod straight as his body very visibly readied itself, forcing all panic aside until it could be dealt with in private.

Upon reaching the base of the stairs he could see Sherlock's curls bowed towards his chest, reassuring him that he was at least still within the flat but not doing very much to release the hold of adrenaline on his mind. So John took a moment to consider which medical supplies he still had left within the flat before making his way over to the other, his eyes immediately scanning him for any sign of obvious injury. Or, at the very least, which one of the injuries he could see may have caused him to decline quite so rapidly.

“Sherlock?”  
  
He shifted to crouch in front of the detective, reaching out to press his fingers deftly to his pulse, “Sherlock? Can you hear me?”

Almost as soon as his fingers touched the underside of Sherlock's wrist, the younger man gave a sharp twitch. Jolting a short, almost snore from the back of his throat that served to assure John that he was merely asleep. Nevertheless the doctor took a moment longer to ensure that Sherlock's pulse was behaving the way it should be before he eased himself back onto his haunches, his hand coming to rest uneasily against the skin and bone that was the detectives knee.

“Sherlock.” He dropped his voice a little, an impulse when talking to someone who was sleeping, “You really can't sleep hunched over like that.” He stated softly, eyeing up the vertebrae he could see protruding from his skin, “Sherlock?”

The detective shifted slightly where he was slumped over, his eyelids fluttering for a brief moment before his features tightened in a grimace that prompted John to remove his hand from his trouser leg. Watching with a small amount of sadness present in his features as the other man arched himself away from the back of the chair. Clearly taking another further moment to return to full consciousness as he grumbled softly to himself for a number of seconds before seemingly realising John was crouched before him.

“Hey.” The doctor attempted a smile, though his eyes were instantly drawn to the rather hefty bandaging that covered Sherlock's right hand, “You'll cramp up if you sleep any longer like that.” He stated softly, fighting the urge to ask reams of questions, “Perhaps you should head to bed?” John shifted slightly, his eyes skimming back to the bandaging before they returned to Sherlock's face, “I'm afraid you'll likely have to take mine. Your room isn't particularly...habitable currently.”

For a moment Sherlock simply blinked back at John before, with another slight grimace, he shifted to the edge of the armchair, “I'd be happy if you could just assist me to the sofa.”

“Sherlock, you're clearly not...terribly well.” John stated carefully, his hand going out to steady itself against Sherlock's arm, “I'd feel much happier if you were in a bed.” His bad shoulder gave a warning twinge at the prospect of spending another night on the sofa but John elected to ignore it, “Just let me help you up, hm?”

Sherlock hesitated for a moment more before relenting and using John's arm to pull himself to his feet, his body secretly rather desperate to sprawl itself out somewhere for a while, “Thank you.”

John turned to look at the side of the detectives face, torn between smiling and the questions that were burning their way through his skull. So he simply settled for a slight nod before falling into silence, unsure of what exactly he could say to the detective at that point to make anything less uncomfortable.

It was only when Sherlock was forced to steady himself with his other hand, and consequently winced rather sharply, that John felt it necessary to speak once more, “Here." He shifted to wrap an arm around Sherlock's back, trying to hold him up more securely. Unfortunately this only led to another wince and he backed off slightly, unsure of where to proceed, "Sorry, Sherlock." He kept a hand under the younger mans arm as he clearly tried to orientate himself, "I --Sorry, I didn't--Where isn't painful?"

After a second of recovering from the burning sensation that had darted throughout his entire upper torso, Sherlock straightened himself up slightly. Glad for the continued support of John's hand as he considered the question, "It's fine, John." He murmured, beginning to feel his mind tugging him back to places he'd rather not be, "Perhaps you could move your arm a little lower."  
  
"Right." John did so, watching Sherlock carefully as he gingerly applied pressure once more, "There?"

Sherlock leaned uncertainly into the doctors side, attempting to get his muscles to relax enough to actually allow him to offset some of his weight onto him before his legs decided to give way once more, "There's fine."

"Alright. Good." John made an attempt at another smile, his fingers sitting uncomfortably against Sherlock shirt as he tried to be as gentle as he could, "Just a couple steps left, then. Can you manage?"

 _Of course I can bloody well manage._ Unfortunately Sherlock's lips wouldn't quite co-operate with the words as all his attention went to staying upright and so he was forced to simply nod as he mounted the next stair alone, hoping to convince John into following.

"Careful, Sherlock." The slightly tensed mumble beside him managed to convince Sherlock to pause for a moment before, with some difficulty, John fitted himself beside him once more and gently continued to guide him up the stairs. Taking a moment to pause outside his bedroom door to ensure Sherlock wasn't about to collapse then and there before leading him to sit carefully on the edge of the bed. Removing his phone subtly from his eye-line as he did so. It wouldn't do to overload the detective with new information all at once, after all. “Right then.”  
  
Sherlock turned to look up at John, his eyes getting mildly snagged in that odd looking moustache, “Should I take my shoes off?”  
  
“Sounds like a plan." John hitched up his jean leg to begin to crouch once more, "Let me. You're still looking a little grey."

With a soft, agreeable sound Sherlock allowed John to go about unlacing his shoes. Taking a moment to attempt to determine what, if anything, had changed about John's room during his absence.

“Lift your foot up for me?” John slipped off Sherlock's shoe, setting it to one side as he was greeted with an uncharacteristically fluffy sock. Something which he soon found to be matched on the other foot. This raised yet another question but, on the whole, it was one of the least concerning changes that the detective seemed to have undergone and so he decided to leave it. Shifting to stand instead,“I think I've got some long-ish pyjamas you can borrow, I'm certain you'll pop a button if you sleep in that.”

Sherlock glanced down at himself, taking a moment to smooth his uncovered fingers over the replacement purple shirt. Noting absently that there actually already seemed to be a button missing. Inconvenient.

“They were a joke.” John explained a little sheepishly as he returned with a set of pyjamas inexplicably printed with the word 'foxy', “Mike, I think." He muttered, setting them down beside Sherlock, "Safe to say, it was a relief that they didn't fit.” He shifted a little, acutely aware that Sherlock's eyes were boring into the side of his head, “Anyway.” He cleared his throat slightly, straightening up to face the other man, “Do you need help getting out of your things?”

“I'm fairly certain I can manage, John.” Unfortunately upon attempting to slide his coat from his shoulders he quickly found that the stitching holding the skin of his back together wasn't going to abide any sort of useful movement, forcing him to freeze in place as he bit back any sort of vocalisation of the pain.

Feeling a mild twinge of embarrassment on the detectives behalf, John shifted forwards slightly to hold out a hand, “I've no qualms about helping you change, Sherlock. I'd rather that than you hurt yourself further." He stated, attempting to soften away the worry from his features.

“A little assistance may be in order.” Sherlock muttered, his eyes cast somewhere towards the floor as he tried to think of some sort of solution to avoid John having to see the mess of his skin. Perhaps he'd let him keep his vest on.

"Alright, no worries at all." The doctor smiled crisply before beginning to gently guide the material from around Sherlock's frame, letting him remove the bandaged hand from the sleeve himself before he took a hold of the coat and set it to one side. Taking a moment to note just how unnervingly the aforementioned purple shirt was billowing away from the detectives skin, "Okay. Shirt next?"

Sherlock straightened himself up slightly, hoping any traces of concern were gone from his features.

"Alright." With a practised ease, John proceeded to make short work of the buttons. Pretending not to notice the fact that vest Sherlock was wearing was ever so slightly dampened with sweat, "Tell me if I hurt you, Sherlock. Okay?"  
  
“When have I been known to stay quiet?”  
  
“No, quite.”Though he was aware that the tone was most likely a result of Sherlock feeling increasingly vulnerable, a small part of him couldn't help but bristle slightly. Setting his posture a little straighter, "I'm just going to see about getting this off now, okay?”

“Yes, John. I have undressed before. I don't need you to walk me through it.”

The doctor cleared his throat before beginning to slip the material from Sherlock's shoulders, being mindful to avoid touching his skin as much as possible, “Just your hands.”

Sherlock silently eased first his good hand from within the material before freeing up the second and crossing them over one another in his lap. Remaining silent as he listened to John fold up the material beside him. His mind turning to the chances of Mycroft bringing some sort of a painkiller with him when he visited in the morning. He didn't really want his brother back in the flat, if he was being entirely honest, but he concluded it would probably be worth it if he brought some relief from the pain.

“Sherlock?”

The detective's gaze slid from the wall to John's moustache, making the doctors nose twitch slightly, “Leave the vest.”

“Leaving the vest.” John moved to pick up the, thankfully, buttoned pyjama shirt. Managing to maintain his doctoral façade as Sherlock stiffly allowed him to ease the material back up over his arms. Once again making short work of the buttons before he moved to take hold of the trousers, “Right, then. Trousers?”

Sherlock shifted himself slightly where he sat, his features shifting ever so slightly as he dipped his head, “I suppose we should finish the job, hm?”

“S'pose so.” John held out an arm, “Can you stand up for a moment? It'll be easier to get them off without...getting too up close and personal.”

“God forbid.” Sherlock muttered, taking a hold of John's arm and using it to pull himself to his feet before he reached down to unbutton his fly. Not really wanting the doctor to fumble around where he was still healing.

Feeling pleased that the whole ordeal wouldn't have to be drawn out much further, John waited until the trousers were around Sherlock's ankles before assisting Sherlock to sit back down and crouching once more, “Socks on or off?” He asked, eyeing up the fluffy socks once more.

“On.”  
  
Noting the slight bruising around Sherlock's ankles, John couldn't help but wonder what the socks were covering but wasn't about to go against his express wishes and so began to slip the trousers on without further questioning. Only pausing when he reached Sherlock's thighs and, once more, had to assist him to his feet before he gingerly began to ease the waistband up over his hips. Unfortunately one wrong move led to a knuckle digging into a particularly painful line of stitching and Sherlock recoiled with a soft grunt, though he managed to have enough forethought to catch a hold of the trousers as John's hand too recoiled. Apologies spilling freely from his lips as he made tentative attempts to steady the other man.

“Jeez. Sherlock, I'm sorry.” He hoped that his shoulder was a safe place to touch as he set his hand there instead, desperate to help however he could at that point, “I'm sorry.”

“I suppose this is when I'm supposed to tell you, you're hurting me. Or...were, rather.” Sherlock muttered, very slowly pulling up the trousers and holding them in place as he straightened up carefully, “But I assure you, I'll recover.” He added, taking a look at John's features. Which were entirely twisted in a mildly sweaty looking concern, "There's really no need to...sweat quite so much, John.”

“Mm?” John reached up to run a hand over his chin, his nails leaving sharp red lines against his skin as he scratched beside his ear. Prompting Sherlock's good hand to curl into a fist against the material he was still holding up, “Sorry.” The doctor reached up to run his sleeve across his forehead before gingerly extending a hand towards Sherlock once more. One, he noted, that was trembling very obviously in the air between them. “Do you want to sit back down?”

Sherlock nodded, taking the hand a little more tightly than he'd intended to as he searched for something to lessen the tension in the other man's features.

“Alright.”  
  
There he was, filling silence once more. The detective knew that there must be something he could say. It made his chest ache to see John's face quite so...red. Especially knowing he had served a rather large part in bringing it about.

“You're not hurting too much are yo—”

“I lost my fingers, John.” Sharing secrets was something that people often found reassuring. It could solidify a relationship. Create a basis for trust. However it appeared that Sherlock had either selected the wrong moment or misjudged their relationship entirely as his attempt to soothe John backfired entirely and merely created a great deal more redness that settled into his skin in panicked blotches.

“You--” He blinked twice, his eyes flitting to the bandaging once more as his lips all but disappeared into his tightened features, “You lost your fingers.”

“Only two.” Sherlock shifted slightly, glancing down at his own hand for a moment before he shifted it to sit in his lap. Letting go of the trousers for a moment to gingerly itch where the bandaging ended, more out of habit than anything else.

“Where the hell have you been, Sherlock?” John's voice had dropped to something that resembled a hardened whisper, his eyes sparking with something that the detective couldn't place, “Is this all from...the falling?” He asked, his voice rising unnaturally as he concluded his question. Making his Adam's apple bob dangerously in his throat.

“No.” Having been watching said Adam's apple, Sherlock began to make attempts to convince his eyes to meet with John's once more. His heart leaping to a slightly laboured rush in his chest, “No, I uh...Well I never actually 'fell', per say. But that's another matter entirely, I fear it would be rather too much to attempt to explain everything in one go.”

“Sherlock.”

“So I'll simply explain where I've...been. I'm exhausted so you'll have to excuse any inconsistencies.” He paused for a moment, his mind sluggishly kicking in more entirely as he watched John for some sort of response. When he received nothing beyond a slight twitch of that moustache, he forced his mind into continuing, “Well, as I'm sure you've come to understand, Moriarty died on the roof. One shot through the skull. However behind every 'mastermind' there's a...” His mind stalled, searching for the right word, “Well a team. I suppose. For want of a better word.” He shifted slightly, “Do sit down, John. Your leg is clearly hurting you.”

“I'm fine where I am, thank you.”

Sherlock cleared his throat, “Very well. So. A team.” He began to dig his nails a little harder into his skin, frustration beginning to take hold as his mind refused to work how he was willing it to, “A 'team' which I was assigned to disassemble. Moriarty's web. Erm.”

John shifted slightly his expression shifting into something a little softer as he watched frustration flick through the detectives features in waves.

“It's safe to say things didn't go to plan and, after a...an incident that left me rather off guard, I ended up getting myself captured. Which, as I'm sure you can imagine, wasn't a particularly...Well. There was...I think I lost my fingers fairly early on. I don't—They've been tended to so you wont need to worry about--” Sherlock flinched sharply as John's fingers closed around his and he looked down to find that he was on the verge of drawing blood. A fact which brought a jolt of colour to his cheeks.

“Sherlock.” John's voice was a good deal softer than it had been, something which only served to draw attention to the fact that Sherlock's breath was coming a little faster than he'd have liked, “We don't have to do this now.” He squeezed his fingers lightly, “I'm—I apologise for making you dredge it all up. I wasn't aware you'd...Well I wasn't aware of much, honestly. I'm sorry, Sherlock.”

For a brief instant John felt Sherlock squeeze back before his hand was gone from his and the detective was sitting up straight once more, his eyes focused somewhere behind him as they clearly attempted to steel over once more, “As soon as I'm able to provide a more thorough explanation, I will.”

John nodded, knowing better than to discuss the matter further and instead gestured towards the bed, “Do you want to just settle to sleep for now, then?” He asked quietly, moving to untuck one of the neatly folded corners, “Unless the bandaging is causing you discomfort.”

Sherlock seemed to consider this for a moment before gingerly easing himself to his feet once again, “If you'd like to change it, you can.” He slotted himself in where John had just removed the covers, eager to be a little more covered. This also left John's arm outstretched, with Sherlock settled beside it. Making it feel pleasantly as if he were being hugged for a moment before John removed his arm and Sherlock took the opportunity to frown at himself disapprovingly, “Though I think I'd like to lie down whilst you do so.”

“Of course.” John smiled slightly, easing the sheets away from the other corner before folding them back to allow Sherlock room to slide in, “Do you think you can get your legs up?”

“I'd have to lie on my front.”

“Alright. We can do front.” John moved forwards, setting a hand against the detectives shoulder. Doing his best to assist him as he gradually began to slide himself more securely onto the mattress. Eventually moving to tuck a hand under his knee to effectively lift him the rest of the way.

This made Sherlock flop slightly, his body inching it's way towards John's warmth quite without his say so for a brief moment before he found himself sat on the mattress and he straightened up. Feeling momentarily pleased at the way it held his body before he proceeded to lower himself onto his front and breathing a slow, almost involuntary, sigh of relief once he'd managed to get his head to the pillow.

“Comfy?”

Sherlock nodded against the pillow, his eyes already beginning to claw their way shut as he shifted his bandaged hand to where the doctor would be able to reach it.

“Perfect.” John reached out to pat his forearm before moving to collect the clothes that he'd discarded earlier, “I'm going to need to grab a couple of things quickly. I'll wake you up before I do anything.”

The younger man responded with another nod. Actually feeling mildly enthusiastic about finally changing the bandaging, it really was beginning to become a little sticky.

Unfortunately the memory foam John had splashed out for at some point in vain attempt to help his shoulder felt far too comforting and he soon found himself beginning to drift off. Something about the familiar scent and softness around him seemingly working as a mild painkiller as his attention turned from the aching where his fingers had once been, back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one took a little while to get out. I hope it's not lacking.
> 
> Thank you once again for reading and leaving feedback! Hopefully the next chapter will be up a little more quickly.


	6. John takes a little time to dwell.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kind of jinxed it with that last note, huh?

He didn't want to loose any more fingers. He needed his fingers. It'd be the thumb next, he was sure of it. Frankly he didn't really fancy learning to cope without a thumb.

“--Awake?”

Sherlock tried to drag his hand away from whatever was poking it, earning him a sharp spasm of pain and nothing of a great deal of use to follow. So he began to attempt verbal warnings instead but was disappointed to find that, once again, they seemed to be coming out horribly slurred.

“It's just me, you're okay.” Something warm settled against his forearm and he felt himself tense, confusion flooding his senses as whatever it was began to pet him softly. Perhaps the rat had decided to actually approach him. That would be novel, “Sherlock?”

Oh. The detective began to convince his muscles into relaxation, it dawning on him that it was John beside him. It wasn't likely that he meant him any harm.

“Sorry, mate.”

/Mate./

“I promise you can go right back to sleep once this is all done, alright?”

Once what was done? Sherlock wasn't sure. So he began to groggily attempt a deduction but only got so far as to note bandaging before his attention was drawn to the fact that he seemed to have dribbled over the pillow.

“Sherlock?”

There was an odd edge to John's tone, something which Sherlock supposed must be due to the dribble. It was bound to make anyone uncomfortable. So, with no small amount of effort, he began to attempt to shuffle himself in such a manner that would allow him to remove it. Unfortunately getting his hands anywhere useful wasn't quite as possible as he'd hoped.

“Hey, hey.” John's hand lifted from his arm and Sherlock took the opportunity to begin to use this new, slight freedom to further his attempts at removing the offending saliva, “Sherlock, here.”

Sherlock watched apprehensively as John reached forward with a tissue, his expression forming one of mild concentration as he dabbed at the detectives face, “There.” He then replaced the tissue with a small torch, watching as Sherlock's eyes clicked to connect with the device.

Sherlock idly considered the notion that he was concussed. That would certainly explain the dribbling, and his apparent memory loss.

“This is going to be a little bright but it wont do you any harm.”

True to the doctors word, the light hit his pupils sharply. Causing the detective to flinch as John cast the light carefully across his eyes, repeating this several times before he seemed satisfied.

“Alright.”

The light shut off and Sherlock screwed his eyes shut for a minute before searching for John again amid the mild haze.

“Doesn't look as if you're concussed.” He heard John shift, then something warm was pressed to his forehead. His cheeks, his neck, “You're not overly hot. Do you feel sick at all? Can you see me alright?”

Technically Sherlock could see everything perfectly but his mind seemed slow on the upkeep, something which was becoming dreadfully irritating, “I'm not feeling nauseated. I can see.” He shuffled himself slightly, something which was somewhat of a battle against the new taught quality of his skin, “I'm just struggling to comprehend.” He admitted, his eyes skimming John's features in a vain attempt to pre-empt his response.

“Okay.” The tension eased slightly from John's shoulders. Sherlock was sure that must be a good thing. “Scared me for a minute there, mate.” A breathy almost-chuckle made Sherlock's features tighten into a slightly confused smile, “Give it a minute, you've just woken up after all.” He shifted again then stood, leaving Sherlock to stare mildly at his thighs for a moment before he closed his eyes. Taking a short moment to force his way back towards his thoughts, trying to assemble them correctly before he had to contend with anything further. “--We get this hand sorted, the quicker you can get back to sleep.”

“My hand?” Sherlock opened his eyes once more, squiting up towards John's face from his disadvantaged position.

“Yes, your hand. That's right.”

“You're going to change the bandaging.” Things were beginning to feel better, everything was sliding back where it should be.

“Right.” John shifted from one foot to another then immediately back again as it presumably twinged something, “Do you want to get started, then? I'll be as gentle as I can.”

“Of course you will.” The detective closed his eyes once more, beginning to attempt to shift his injured hand towards John, “You're unlikely to willingly hurt me.”

“Again.”

“John.”

The doctor huffed softly as he reached out to assist with Sherlock's hand, taking a hold of his arm to gingerly guide it so it was bent beside his head, “Sorry.” John assured the arm was secured before reaching down beside the bed. Causing Sherlock to note, for the first time, that he'd somehow managed to bring a straight backed chair into the room. That likely would have played havoc with his leg. “Right then.” Sherlock's attention turned instead to the familiar medical bag that John had produced. "I think it'll be easiest-” His voice strained slightly as he sat, setting the bag onto his lap, “If I move your hand a little.” He gingerly unfolded then laid a towel over his knees, that being the most sterile covering he could find, “Are you alright if I set it on my lap?”  
  
“You make it sound as if I'm detached from the thing.” Sherlock shifted his hand again before very gradually moving his entire body with it, “Do as you will.”

John nodded slightly before reaching out to gingerly guide the detectives hand onto the towel, shifting everything about for a moment before he seemed to deem himself comfortable, “How's that?”

“Bearable.” Sherlock shifted slightly, ensuring his shoulder was comfortable, “I suppose we'll have to forego the painkillers?”

“I've got a local, if you want? Though, honestly, I'm hesitant to give you anything without knowing what you've already taken.”

Understandable. “I'm afraid I can't be of much use there.” The detective paused, searching back through more distant memories, “I don't remember being treated with anything today. If that helps any.”

John hesitated, eyeing up the contents of his bag.

“I can go without if necessary, John.”

The doctor doubted that entirely, having witnessed the manner in which Sherlock held the thing so carefully, “I'm not sure that's-” He glanced towards his phone, which had lit up with a text on the night stand, “Such a good idea. You're still not looking particularly well.”

_A local aesthetic will be fine, Doctor. I'll leave you records of what I supply him with tomorrow. MH_

Having been peering at the screen, not wanting to touch it lest he ruin the endeavour of washing his hands quite so extensively, John managed to decipher the text from the eldest Holmes and huffed softly, “Though we needn’t worry. Mycroft says you're fine for a local.”

“Berk.”  
  
“My sentiment exactly.” John reached for a pair of gloves, still wishing he had a more sterile environment to work in. Even despite the “But it's good news, at least. Hm?”

“I believe he promised he wouldn't set up any cameras in the bedrooms.”

After feeling a mild prickle of discomfort at the prospect of being watched in his bedroom of all places, John managed to shrug the issue aside to be dealt with later as he secured the gloves over his fingers, “Am I dealing with any open wounds, Sherlock?”

After seemingly giving this a moment of thought, the other man opened his eyes to look up at John once more. His eyes flitting to that damned moustache, “Only stitching, I believe. Though there may be a few burns.” He relinquished eye contact with the moustache, “I honestly can't recall.”

John nodded his customary doctors nod before picking up a pair of scissors, Sherlock's eyes sliding closed at the sight of which once more, “I'm just going to see about getting some of this bandaging off, alright? I want to get the anaesthetic in as close as possible.”

“Of course.”

With another, rather redundant, nod John set about carefully trimming away the reams of bandaging. Discarding it all carefully as he gradually began to uncover the new form of Sherlock's hand. He'd witnessed hands with missing fingers before, of course he had, but somehow the prospect of having been mildly acquainted with said fingers before hand made the prospect a good deal more daunting. Nevertheless he was pleased to see that, upon reaching the foremost layer of bandaging, everything looked as good as could probably be expected. If not a little sweaty.

“Okay. Last bit now, you holding up okay?”

Sherlock sniffed, shifting one of his intact fingers under John's hand slightly, “Yes. Fine.”

John hesitated for a moment, trying to ascertain whether the curt quality to Sherlock's voice meant the opposite before returning his attention to the bandaging once more, “Just let me know if anything pulls, alright?.”

The detective nodded silently, releasing a slow breath as he closed his eyes once more. Unable to stop himself tensing slightly as he felt John begin to very carefully cut away the dressings. Revealing neatly stitched skin and a few healing scars that, all things considered, looked rather promising, “There we are.” He glanced up to offer Sherlock's eyelids a slight, reassuring smile, “How's that feel?”

“Better.” Sherlock mumbled, surprised at just how refreshing the air felt against his skin. So much so that he was tempted to open his eyes once more but he was admittedly a little frightened at what he would find, his mind making short work of replaying the scene he had been met with when last attempting to remove the bandaging himself, “Though I assume the worst is about to come.”

“I'm afraid you may be right in that.” John stated, taking a moment to study Sherlock's hand, “But we can let it sit for a moment, if you'd like. I'm in no rush.”

Sherlock wiggled each one of his fingers carefully, managing to move the half of his ring finger that remained but what was left of his smallest finger refused. Something which John observed, making a note to check for any obtrusive scar tissue at a later date.

“How does it look?” Sherlock asked, his voice betraying him a little as he worked to keep himself present.

“Not bad at all.” He commented, beginning to set up the local anaesthetic, “Everything looks as if it's healing nicely. Do you have any idea when these stitches are supposed to come out?”

The detective wrinkled his nose slightly, “I'm sure you can discuss it with Mycroft.” He shifted his hand slightly, testing out his mobility, “I don't recall.”

“Alright.” John set the needle to one side, leaning away slightly to change his gloves. Though he wasn't actually faced with any open wounds, one could never be too careful, “I don't think we'll need to wrap everything up quite so thickly.” He stated, returning his attention to Sherlock's poor severed digits. He couldn't help wondering how exactly they'd been lost but he had hold of his senses enough to realise that asking such specific questions probably wouldn't garner a positive reaction, “I think you'll be more comfortable with something lighter now that everything looks to be closed up.”

“Perhaps we ought to move on to the injecting then, hm?”

“If you're ready.” John proceeded to clean off Sherlock's hand gingerly, assuring everything was as it should be as he watched Sherlock turn his face slightly towards the pillow, “Sherlock?”

“Yes. John. I'm ready.”

John finished cleaning off the detectives had thoroughly before checking the needle once more, “Alright. I'm sure you know the drill, sharp scratch.”

“Mm.”

Having pre-empted the slight twitch Sherlock gave when the needle entered his skin John was able to keep everything steady until he was satisfied that the area should become suitably numb, “Okay?” He asked carefully, moving to discard the needle.

“Mm.”

“Let me know when things start feeling numb.” John cleaned Sherlock's hand off lightly before settling back uncomfortably where he sat, his back beginning to protest non too quietly, “It shouldn't take too long to re-wrap everything.”

“Hm.” Sherlock huffed once more, though the slight alteration in intonation suggested that he was as least listening to some extent.

But, since the rather meaningless response gave John little to respond to, the two men proceeded to simply fall into silence. John shuffling about under Sherlock's hand to try and ease some of the pressure on his back until he gave up and settled in to endure the discomfort. His eyes flitting listlessly around the room as he tried to think of something of worth to say.

However, after a long couple of moments with nothing, he was excused as Sherlock spoke once more, “John?”

The doctor glanced back to Sherlock's eyelids, “Numb?”

“I believe so.”

John reached out to gingerly touch his fingers, watching the detectives features for a response.

“If you're touching me, I can't feel it.”

“Excellent.” John smiled, though he was completely aware it was pointless given that Sherlock's eyes were still closed but he hoped the sentiment got through at least, “There's not actually anything much to clean.” He observed quietly, gently turning over Sherlock's hand in his own, “But I'd imagine things were a little clammy under all that bandaging, hm?”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose slightly, his attention returning from the fingers he could no longer feel to the rest of his body which had begun to ache a little more forcefully than he'd have liked.

“I'll just rinse everything off, wrap it up and I can leave you in peace.”

Frankly, he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to be left 'in peace' but asking John to stay seemed like somewhat of a stretch. So he simply remained silent as John began to gently cleanse his skin, having presumably brought in a bowl of water with the chair. This lead Sherlock to wander just how long he'd been asleep. After all John would have to have made at least two trips downstairs. Something which, with his leg acting as it was, wouldn't have been any mean feat.

“Alright.”

John's voice brought Sherlock back to the task at hand and, before his mind could convince him otherwise, he let his eyes flick open to connect with his hand.

“I think that's good. I'd ask you how it felt but-”

The doctor paused abruptly as Sherlock lifted his numb hand from his, his eyes following it carefully. For a moment both men sat in silence, staring at the thing. After a long moment John finally took initiative and reached out to soothe a hand up the detectives forearm, easing his hand back to it's previous position as he waited for Sherlock's face to respond in some way. This turned out to be fruitless as it remained entirely, unnervingly blank. Leaving John's expression to do all the work as it flexed itself into a tightened reflection of the fresh hammering of his heart, “Sherlock?” His voice seemed to have softened itself somewhat as he soothed a finger over a clear patch of skin on his arm, still watching Sherlock's features carefully, “Come back, mate.”

Sherlock shifted slightly, his eyes shifting to John's before they slid shut once more, “I assume you wont be needing me from here?”

“As long as you feel alright with me bandaging you unattended.” John murmured, shifting to begin to dry off Sherlock's hand a little uncertainly, “You off to sleep?”

“Mm.” The younger man shifted ever so slightly in a futile bid to soothe the aching, “Wake me when Mycroft gets here.”

“'Course.” John set Sherlock's hand back into his lap, picking up his bag to begin to pull out a roll of bandage. Which, irritatingly, got snagged somewhere and forced him to go searching for the end of the damned thing.

Giving Sherlock a short moment to view his hand once more before he elected to settle to sleep. His mind setting about crushing certain emotions he wasn't yet sure how to express. A habit he knew wasn't particularly healthy but served a purpose. He was certain he could find, and therefore deal, with it all at a later date. Preferably when John wouldn't be around to make that painful, worried face of his.

Though John, of course, noted none of this as he finally managed to free the bandaging and turned to assess just how asleep Sherlock was. This was, unfortunately, made rather difficult as he noted Sherlock had somehow managed to turn his head away from him. Leaving him with only a view of slightly limp looking curls and a sharp shock of red scarring against the once smooth skin of the others neck.

For a brief moment he felt compelled to reach out to touch, to assess more of the damage done. But, of course, that probably wouldn't have been necessarily wise. So instead he simply set about putting his newly retrieved bandaging to use, gently manipulating Sherlock's limp fingers until he felt satisfied it was wrapped securely and proceeded to struggle with the tape. His own hand gradually declining from reasonably steady to really rather useless by the time he'd located the end of the tape and managed to secure the loose end of Sherlock's bandaging with it, his features screwing themselves into a firm expression of frustration as he did so.

“Right then.” He murmured, double checking Sherlock's hand before shakily returning it to the bed. Watching quietly as the detective set about making himself comfortable, “Alright.” He dropped his voice to a whisper, not wanting to stir the scrap of detective before him, “I'm off.” With a soft grunt he pushed himself to his feet, swallowing against a short rush of nausea that swamped his throat, “Erm.” With his steadier hand he reached out to gingerly pat the bed in a bout of forged masculinity, stopping short of actually touching the detective once more, “Sleep well.”

**********************

It had taken at least three dramatically sub-par mugs of tea and a phone call to his sister for the magnitude of the situation to settle itself stiffly around John's shoulders and it slowly dawned on him that, in that moment, he was completely unable to stop the tears that had somehow taken a hold of his senses. So, after a short moment of attempting another tea in a bid to keep them at bay, John simply sat and bowed his head. Deciding that if he was going to cry he may as well jolly get it over with whilst he was alone.

Unfortunately what could have been a short cathartic moment led to the lines of the table etching themselves into John's cheek as his body finally seemed to realise the late hour and eased him to sleep, his breath coming in short snuffles thanks to the fact that his nose tended to entirely block itself whenever he cried. Which, if John was asked, wasn't all that often.

This wouldn't have been a massive problem, all future aches set aside, were it not for the fact that Mycroft had settled himself rather eerily into his brothers chair where he sat texting silently. In fact it wasn't until John bolted upright, spilt the dregs of his tea over himself, and whined softly at the spasms the muscles of his back gave that Mycroft gave any notice that he was there at all. This came in the form of a clearing of his throat as the phone was slipped away and replaced with the handle of his umbrella, sharp eyes following the smaller man as he attempted to puff himself up to his full height.  
“Evening, Doctor Watson.”

“I—Who--” John shifted from one foot to the other, winced, then shifted back again, “How long have you been here?”

“I assume you've tended to my brothers bandaging?”

John's lips tightened into a thin line, his hand moving to prod at the small puddle of tea that had settled into the wool of his jumper.

“The stitches are due out in a week or so. Though I'm near certain that he'll have them out on his own terms before then so you're to tell him it's at least two.” Mycroft stood, smoothing a hand over the slightly strained buttons of his suit jacket, “I've had everything you should need set up in my brothers bedroom. Should you feel you're missing something you should contact my assistant, Anthea. I'm certain you'll find her phone number in brothers phone.”

John turned his head slightly towards the bedroom in question but didn't actually remove his eyes from the elder Holmes, “Sherlock wanted me to wake him when you got here.”

“I'd wager I can do that myself, hm?” Mycroft turned towards the stairs, fidgeting slightly under his blazer once more, “You'd do well to clean yourself up a little.”

The sound of John's teeth grinding over one another could be heard from the other side of the flat.

“He /is/ my brother, Dr Watson.” Mycroft began to climb the stairs, leaving John to scowl from the kitchen, “I have no intent to cause him any injury.”

John struggled with a breath through his nose for a minute before he inclined his head slightly in a reluctant nod and headed for the bathroom, deciding that keeping an ear out for Sherlock was probably the best thing to do at that point. After all, he was aware his face probably didn't look terribly reassuring.

This turned out to be something that wasn't particularly simple to resolve as, after several attempts at washing his face his newly haggard appearance simply wouldn't budge. This led to several minutes of him staring blandly at his own features before it ended up mildly unnerving him and he dipped his gaze back towards the sink, faintly wondering if any of Sherlock's extensive range of skin care products he'd left behind were any good.

When exactly John decided on a rather brash solution wasn't abundantly clear but when he next emerged from the bathroom he was clean shaven and bleeding mildly from his upper lip. For which he was blaming the razor. It'd been blunt.

“Well I must say, that looks much better.”

“You'll be off now, then?” John asked, the muscles across his shoulders tensing as he headed to take a hold of his discarded mug.

“I assume you're planning on continuing to care for my brother, Doctor.”

John turned to face Mycroft, ignoring the slight prickle of nerves the shift in the elder mans voice sent through him, “It hardly seems that I have a choice.”

Cold, grey eyes mapped John's features for a moment before a short inhalation tested the strain of his buttons once more, “No. I don't suppose you do.” With one swift movement, Mycroft snatched up his umbrella more securely into his hand, “I think it's time I bid you a good evening, then.”

The mildly aggressive gurgling of water filling the mug remained the doctors only answer.

This left John to scowl quietly in the kitchen as he washed up his mug for a second time, waiting until he was certain Mycroft had left the building before he discarded it to one side. He briefly considered calling Mary, asking her to come over and help. Though he couldn't quite bring himself to introduce her to Sherlock just yet. He'd wait. Wait until they were something concrete then introduce them. Thereby saving confusion in the long run. Perhaps he'd get in touch with Lestrade, he certainly seemed to know how to deal with the Holmes' better than he could ever hope to. But they hadn't spoken in months, not since he'd been over to clean out Sherlock's things. It probably wouldn't go down well to ask for help out of the blue.

So he was alone, then. After all the few friends he'd had were Sherlock's and, since Sherlock was no longer there to join the loose ends, John had felt odd about reaching out to them. So the loose ends continued to unravel until there really seemed no point in contacting them, especially over stupid meaningless drinks or loneliness. True Lestrade had attempted to coerce him out to the pub a couple of times but John was aware when he was simply being pitied.

“John?”

The fragility of Sherlock's voice from across the flat set John on edge as he turned to find the detective white-knuckled against the banister, his face clearly displaying a magnitude of discomfort, “Sherlock. Sorry, I'm not sure why I let him--” He couldn't help but tense slightly as Sherlock continued downstairs, “Look. Let me--”

“I'm fine.” Sherlock's voice was as tense as his posture as he eased himself down the last couple of stairs.

“Sherlock.”

“I'm fine, John.”

John took a short breath in through his nose before turning back to the sink and, after a moment of hesitation, flicked on the kettle once more. He wasn't particularly keen on another mug of tea but, at the very least, it gave him something to do whilst Sherlock made his way through the flat.

This took a little while longer than either man was comfortable with but neither chose to mention it as Sherlock moved past John into the bathroom. Leaving the older man to poke about the kitchen in the hope of finding something for them both to eat, that seeming like as good of a use of his time as any.

Unfortunately he quickly discovered that he had little in the way of food left in the flat so, after a moment of staring at the one can of soup he'd found, he headed upstairs to retrieve his phone. Feeling mildly endeared towards the idea of a takeaway.

“Sherlock?” He tapped the bathroom door, having made his own slightly unstable way back downstairs again.

“Mm?”

“Can you stomach a takeaway or would you rather soup or something?”

After a moment of running the tap, Sherlock poked his head around the door. Curls dripping around his face, “What sort of takeaway?”

John shifted slightly, glancing down at his phone, “Hadn't got that far. Chinese?”

“Chinese is fine.” The detective paused for a moment, scanning John's features, “I hated the moustache.”

“Hm?” John began his characteristically slow scroll through his contacts before his brow seemed to realise he should be offended and furrowed accordingly, his eyes shifting to glance up at the other man, “It wasn't there for you.”

A slight smile graced Sherlock's features for a moment before he stood back from the door slightly, “I take it I'll meet her soon, then.”

The soft snort that bubbled from his chest surprised John mildly as the sheer familiarity of Sherlock's words sent an odd wave of joy through him. Something which was paralleled softly from behind the bathroom door before John seemed to realise they were both just stood there smirking at each other and cleared his throat slightly, “Quite.” He held the phone aloft, “Get on with...whatever it is you're doing in there.”

“Showering, John. I assume you're familiar with the activity.”

John pressed the phone to his ear, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock before turning away from the door to impulsively order their usual. Earning him another smile from Sherlock as he bent back over the sink to continue to rinse off his hair, ignoring the spasm of pain this brought about in favour of easing himself into the slightly fragile state of domesticity they seemed to have found.


	7. Clashing.

John had settled into his chair in the living room leaving Sherlock, all be it stiffly, to follow suit after cleaning as much of himself as he was able. He took the towel he had set about his shoulders to scrub at his curls, that giving him something to occupy his hands as they twitched to wrench John's phone from his as the blisteringly slow speed in which the physicians mind employed his fingers to form some sort of a sentence gradually began to set his pulse to surging about his ears. In a ditch attempt to maintain a sense of decorum, Sherlock set his mind to who may be on the receiving ends of said texts. Though the majority of his once brilliant mind had succumbed to ruin, his arrogance was still mercilessly intact and his initial thought was of himself. Which, of course, was absurd. They were sat opposite one another. Perhaps it was the woman who instigated the moustache. The thought, though Sherlock knew the sentiment was a ridiculous one, seemingly appeared from nowhere at all. Nevertheless, it still managed to raise his pulse ever higher.

“Did you manage to shower alright?”

Sherlock glanced up from behind the towel, pleased to be afforded a brief interlude from that particular line of though as he dropped the material back around his shoulders. Impulsively taking a vain moment to check that his old scar was covered. Though it hardly seemed to matter now his new curls, which were both shorter and thinner than they had been for over a decade, were making it a difficult task, “Of course.”

“I meant to ask if you needed...I don't know, help or something. What with your hand and all.” John's features twisted oddly and Sherlock struggled for a moment to ascertain the exact cause. It was unlikely that he felt such an extreme response of guilt and it really didn't seem as if he'd done anything to unduly injure himself, “Sorry. Next time, just ask. Alright?” With no small amount of resignation, Sherlock was forced to set the issue aside for a time when his mind was less addled. Which, he hoped, would come soon. Goodness knows it was a long time since he'd last had clarity.

“It's fine, John. I didn't ask for help so I wasn't expecting you to provide it.” Sherlock stated blandly, still petting at his fringe as he attempted to breathe through the frustration that lay bubbling under the surface of his skin. A near constant addition to his mental state, “I may take a bath later, though. If time allows.”

“Depends how tired you are, I s'pose.”

“Mm.”

John shifted under the weight of their shared silence, his eyes following Sherlock's fingers through his fringe for a short moment before they were drawn back to his phone.

_I'm on my way over there now. You owe me, mister. X_

“Mycroft said he-”

“So, tell me more abo-”

Both men cut themselves off near simultaneously as they spoke over one another at once. Both taking the sheer absurd nature of their situation directly across their face. Though, admittedly John's expression was a little more potent. Before Sherlock extended his undamaged hand.

“Thanks. Erm, Mycroft said he left some stuff in the\--” He jutted a thumb over his shoulder, taking a moment to consider his wording, “Well, your room.” He stated, taking a short breath in before beginning to rise to his feet, “Do you mind if I just go and take a peak? I wont be long.”

“By all means.” 

He could feel Sherlock's eyes on his back as he left the room. Something which, remarkably, seemed to straighten out the limp somewhat. However this was an observation that the detective had alone as the sheer tension in the rest of the doctors body held the entirely of the older man's attention. Leaving Sherlock to wonder, once again, what he would do to elevate the damned thing for good.

_Do you want me to leave you something to eat? X_

John had left his phone on the table. Not uncommon, as far as he could recall, but the opportunity it provided was most intriguing. Most intriguing, yes. But unwise. After all Sherlock was fully aware that he was now more reliant on the doctors continued care than made him comfortable. It wouldn't do to upset the balance of things just yet. Not as far as he could help it.

“Sher—John, love?”

Sherlock glanced towards the stairs, surprised that Mrs Hudson was still awake. He hoped he hadn't worried her unduly. He didn't want to worry Mrs. Hudson, “Is everything okay?”

“That's for me.” The slight twitch the detectives muscles gave as John burst forth from his bedroom was neither here nor there. His nerves were still mending themselves, after all. It was to be expected. 

“It'll be the food.”

Sherlock nodded as John passed him,  his eyes following the man until he had began his slightly wary descent down the stairs.

“That's for me, Mrs. H. You really didn't have to get up so late.” Presumably in the break, Mrs. Hudson made some sort of response, “I know. I know. Things rather got away from me. Next time you'll be the first to know when I'm home.”

H e'd a loud voice, did John Watson. Though Sherlock wasn't entirely certain as to whether this had always been the case.  Perhaps  this was merely a response  to the excitement of the imminent arrival of food.  But th at seemed  somewhat unlikely, even with consideration paid to John's healthy appetite.

Despite all excitement, imagined or otherwise, John returned a moment later with his eyes firmly downcast until he had a hold of his wallet. New, but borrowed. And offered Sherlock a slight twinge of a smile, “Thought it was in my pocket.”

“Ah.”

With another clearing of his throat, John proceeded back downstairs. Leaving Sherlock to mull over the implications of a new wallet that John had no intent to keep. The obvious conclusion would be that he'd lost it. Though, if he recalled correctly, John had had the same wallet since he'd returned from the army and that was most certainly not it. Meaning, that he was very careful with the thing. Or, at the very least, had been until now it seemed.

“Sherlock?”

The detective glanced up towards the door where John stood, bag in hand, his features braced in a now all too familiar look of mild concern, “How's Mrs. Hudson?”

Some of the tension loosened from John's features as he headed through into the kitchen in the search of plates, “She asked after you. I didn't really know what to say.”

“But you put her at ease?”

“Yes. Yes.” John re-emerged from the cupboard with some difficulty, “She'll be fine. I told her to come up if she needs anything.”

Sherlock attempted to recline casually in his chair but, unfortunately, this did little but strain both his stomach muscles and his stitching. Forcing him to return to leaning forward uneasily as John began to lay out the food before him.

“Right then.” He dug into the bag, retrieving a number of boxes. Bringing about the heady scent of grease and varying spices that seemed to engulf the detectives gaunt frame in a mildly nauseating mist. Nevertheless his stomach seemed eager to sample whatever the varying, now uniformly organised, boxes contained as it convulsed in a mildly disquieting growling.

“If it's too much just let me know. I can still heat up the soup.”

His hand was still trembling. Sherlock knew it was likely him that put the damned tremor there in the first place but a small, squashed part of him seemingly couldn't stop pushing for a different conclusion. Likely to vainly alleviate guilt on his behalf. Squash it back where it came from.

“Do you need anything to drink?”

It looked painful, hovering like that on his poor leg. John Watson seemed intent on enforcing mental ruin.“I'm fine, John. Sit.”

Thankfully the good doctor settled into silence once more. Though perhaps 'thankfully' wasn't entirely fitting. It wasn't that Sherlock was opposed to John speaking. In fact, he was certain it was quite the opposite. Hadn't he, more often than he cared to considered, held conversation with the man whilst he was away? That, surely, spoke of a longing to speak with him. Though perhaps the air had taken anything of use he'd once had to say.

Surge of adrenaline. Why?

Oh. Sherlock shifted forwards in his chair slightly, ignoring the warning tug his stitching gave once more, “John?” His voice had been caught unaware in his throat. Bringing forth copious amounts of concern that didn't feel entirely appropriate to express.

John held up a finger, his other hand balled over his mouth as he presumably choked on a mouthful of food.

Would the heimlich manoeuvre be appropriate here? Sherlock sincerely doubted he'd have enough upper body strength to carry it out correctly. A flash of a blue, and really rather dead, John Watson encroached on any reasonable thought. Mrs Hudson. He'd call for Mrs Hudson.

“Hey.” A cough, “Hey. Sherlock?” Damn it all. “Sherlock.”

Taught muscles give a painful twitch as something touched his knee. John. As John touched his knee.

“I'm alright, mate.” The last word fell with some discomfort, hanging on John's lips uncomfortably before twisting into the reassurance. He coughed again. Still clearing his throat. “You look as if you've seen a ghost.”

There was supposed to be some mirth there, Sherlock could hear it despite it's absence, but it stopped just short of actually leaving John's throat. Lodged, presumably, behind whatever was currently trying to draw the detectives heart out from between his teeth.

“Don't be ridiculous.” His voice was still unprepared, too shallow. Try again.

“Right.” Sherlock's teeth met back in the middle, his heart just falling short of making an appearance as he watched John attempt a smile, “Right. No such thing.” The tap gurgled for a moment before surrendering a glass of water. John was still struggling against whatever had stuck in his throat but determined not to let on as such. For whose sake? Distracted, Sherlock's tongue went about exploring the area where a tooth had recently been. Probing at soft tissue as his eyes tracked the doctors movements back to his side. Where, with a deceleration made by clearing his throat, he gestured towards Sherlock's lap, “All done?”

_It's not really him, is it? HW_

The detective glanced, stupidly, down at his own thighs. Almost surprised to find a plate there, “Yes.” He held it up towards John, tongue coming away bloodied, “Thank you.”

_Why do you always go running into this sort of shit? HW_

A moment of hesitation. Too long for either man not to make note of it, “ 'Welcome.” Another twitch of a smile before the plate was lifted, soft eyes continuing to track gaunt features for a moment before they were turned to the sink.

_We don't all have acres of free fucking time to come and rescue you, you know. HW_

_John love, pick up the phone. X_

Though it probably wasn't entirely apt, Sherlock flipped the phone into his hand. Narrowly avoiding sending it bouncing off of his feet as he tried to sustain a better hold on the thing.

“Sherlock, I--” John broke off to chew on the inside of his lip, weight teetered entirely to one side as he ran the dishes under the tap.

Four missed calls. John had changed his password.

“I know it's probably not my place but do you...I mean--”

_John, I'm on my way over. There's been an accident. Don't panic but I'll be there soon. X_

Odd way to phrase it.

“Do you think you're--” John turned slightly to glance back at Sherlock, his features twisted in genuine concern, “Sherlock?” Berk wasn't even listening. “Sherlock, is that my phone?”

“Your...partner is on their way over.” Cop-out. Not enough evidence to determine either gender or relationship status. Though, it is more than likely, that whatever it is has lasted long enough for the moustache to take root. Commitment. Probably a girlfriend, if not a fiancée. Boyfriend? John had yet to confirm a gender. Was either more partial to facial hair? Sherlock pushed at his left temple, trying to gear his mind back towards whatever it was John was saying as the horrendously delayed deductions clattered into his line of thought.

Unfortunate. John had already wrapped up whatever line of questioning he'd embarked on, “Sorry?”

“Just give it here.”

*************

“John.” A wave of perfumed softness enveloped the doctor where he stood, causing his back to jolt into rigidity for a moment before he gradually felt himself slump against her. She did still bring an element of comfort, despite the twisting of John's insides, “Hey.” Cold hands pressed themselves to either side of his face, lifting it from her shoulder to her eye-line, “Come on, you. There's no need to worry. Everyone's okay.”

“Harry?”

“Clara.” John felt himself flush a little as Mary pressed a kiss to his lips, the slightly calloused pad of her thumb removing the trace of lipstick that followed, “Some poor soul had a heart attack, their car mounted the curb.”

“Oh.” Everything felt far too intimate with Sherlock only a staircase away. Though, of course, John knew that was probably a mildly absurd thought to dwell on it didn't do anything for the colour in his cheeks, “But she's okay?”

“Few bumps and bruises.” Mary's hands were on his, her thumb tracing the bandaging he'd long forgotten he'd fastened there, “What've you done to yourself?”

“I had a-” The near imperceptible flick of John's eyes towards the stairs sparked something at the very corner of Mary's lips, “Mild run in with an umbrella.”

Something of her bedside manner seemed to spring forth as the woman tenderly turned over John's marred hand in her own, “I worry about you sometimes, love.” She tutted softly at the tape which, after washing the dishes was peeling away from uselessly, “You're going to have to let me sort that for you later.”

John squeezed her hand gently, trying for a soft smile, “No need to worry about me. Doctor, remember?”

Mary chuckled, lighting something in John's chest for a moment before a mildly disturbing clattering from above them firmly morphed it into a pressing concern.

“Does she need us there?”

Having been observing the ceiling as subtly as one could observe a ceiling, Mary returned her attention to John. Running her fingers over his gingerly, “I shouldn't think so.” She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, her fingers subtly tracking towards his pulse, “She's more than a little...peeved with you right now, love.”

Another clattering. Another twitch that John missed entirely.

“Will you--” He pulled his hands free, glancing towards the stairs, “Will you excuse me a moment? I should probably check nothing untoward is...flitting about the flat.” Too soon to tell her about Sherlock's return. She wouldn't understand not yet. He wasn't ready yet.

“Where's your cane, John?”

John stopped where he was for a split second, his features darkening for a moment before he continued to limp towards the stairs. Taking a moment to stamp down any untoward emotion before starting on the stairs. It wouldn't do to have too many thought processes pushing against his skull after all. “Not sure.”

“John, you really need to--” She'd strode forwards, her hand wrapped around his elbow.

“It's fine, Mary.” He pulled it from her hand, catching a hold of the banister instead, “Just—Just.” John cleared his throat, hating the way his voice stalled against the walls of it, “I'll only be a moment, unless you're desperate on heading home.”

“It's alright, I'll wait for you.” Mary's coat made an odd slithering sound as she crossed her arms, watching John progress irritatingly slowly up the stairs, “So say goodbye to whomever you've got up there and hurry up, hm?”

Again, John froze. His fingers tightening against the banister. Mary's lips twitched again, her painted lips twisting upwards in a taught grimace.

“I—It would be best if I stayed here.” John stated, his voice a little steadier than he'd expected it to be, “Perhaps another night?”

“John--”

A scraping sound dragged John's attention back to the top of the stairs, “Look, can we—Just let me sort this out a minute.”

She made no further response, freeing John to make the rest of his steady way up the stairs.

**********************

He'd made a mess. A horrid mess. John would be angry. In truth he'd simply been trying to get himself a drink but, as he should really have predicted, his hands had failed him once more and the damned glass had shattered over seemingly everything in the kitchen.

Unfortunately, after a long while fumbling after the larger shards, Sherlock had only really ended up with a gash in his bandaging and a mild trembling in his legs where he'd been forced to kneel once more.

“Sherlock?”

John. Sherlock began to fumble for the glass once more, the roughened pads of his fingers sliding uselessly over the frictionless surface as he attempted to avoid lacerating himself.

“Sherlock?” The doctor picked his way over the glass, his eyes studying the damage Sherlock had done, “What on earth have you been up to?”

“I uh--” The shaking seemed to have been translated into his voice. Irritating. Sherlock cleared his throat, attempting to sit back on his haunches as carefully as he could, “The glass slipped.”

“Obviously.” John's didn't sound particularly angry but there was a certain edge to his tone that Sherlock couldn't quite place. That ability seemed too to be lost, “Stop fussing with it, come here.”

John's hand was warm against his shoulder blade. Sherlock faintly realised he'd probably been staring at the glass a little too long, on shaking legs, and reached for the table. Instead he was met with another hand, John's left, and gently eased to his feet. His fingers still closed around John's as he tried to convince his legs into holding him.

“Sherlock? An arm around the small of his back. Pushing against a less worrisome bruising. “You haven't hurt yourself, have you?”

“Mr. Holmes.”

His muscles gave a short spasm beneath the arm that was holding them.

“Mary.”

John's arm was pressing more securely against the bruising, almost painfully. Almost. John would never hurt him. Though, it occurred to Sherlock, that that particular line of thinking was ridiculously naive. Especially now, with this 'Mary' standing metres away. Her lipstick was still clinging to John's stubble, despite his being freshly shaved. An obvious, gaudy red that clashed horribly with the pink of her nails. An obvious, gaudy show of where exactly John's affections lay. It wasn't fair to expect any different, he supposed.

“--Know each other?”

John was asking questions again, his eyes flicking expectantly between the woman with whom he was currently sharing lipstick and the man he was still clinging to.

“No, I don't think so.” Mary's painted lips buckled into a smile, though there was something mildly unsettling about her eyes. Sherlock looked away, to the side of John's face. He'd taken on a slightly dewy quality. The detectives mind was unsure as to what to deduce from that. “But I've heard enough about him-you, wouldn't you say?”

There was mirth in her voice, who it was directed at Sherlock wasn't sure but he couldn't quite convince his features into returning it. Instead he simply shook his head, hoping that was an acceptable answer to give.

“Well.” John cleared his throat, his arm shifting to unwittingly press itself over a line of stitching. Something which quickly turned out to be a problem as his grip tightened. Thus forcing Sherlock to wriggle until he was allowed out of it, moving instead to lean heavily against the table as Mary approached. “I'm sure there'll be plenty of time for introductions another time, Mary. Sherlock's not...he's just off to bed.”

That sounded like a wonderful idea. Sherlock stood a little straighter, attempting to clear his vision as beads of pink…something skittered up John's arm.

“Oh. Well, there's no need to intrude then.”

Cold. Lies. Clashing. Sherlock reached up to press his fingers to his left temple, wanting to push things back into place as everything began to unravel uncomfortably.

“Mary.”

His legs were still shaking. He'd been forced to walk from where he knelt. It had been snowing.

“It's been a hell of a day.” A laugh. They'd laughed too. “You look about the same, honestly. Don't let us keep you.”

He didn't want John to be angry. He needed John. Mycroft wasn't wrong there. Mycroft was never wrong. He'd eaten some of the snow, let it melt on his tongue.

“Mary.”

“John--” A warning, bitten off in his throat as his chin hit the table. His legs finally buckling beneath him as an ankle, his left, turned. The impact set his teeth jarring painfully in his skull and he could do nothing but prepare as best he could for impact as everything lurched to one side.


	8. Like a bloody caged animal.

“Ssh.”

Something warm and wet was pressed against the underside of his jaw. Reminding him remarkably of dear Redbeard. Though, of course, he wasn't allowed in the bedrooms. Especially not if he had plans to lick people's faces. Sherlock reached up, noting the odd woollen feeling that clung to his fingers, and attempted to push at him. Mother would be so unhappy. He'd have to make his own bed. He couldn't stand making his own bed. He could never reach the other side of the ridiculous thing.

“There. You're okay.”

Though it would certainly be a wonderful thing if Redbeard had learned to speak, alas he lacked the proper anatomy. Was it father? Unlikely, father wasn't fond of his room. He'd often remarked it smelt of death. It didn't, of course. 'Death' didn't have a smell. What he was most likely referring to was that of decay. Which, obviously, his bedroom didn't smell of either. What his room did smell of was formaldehyde. Which mother had confiscated from him months ago. The scent only served as a cloying reminder of such.

“I have to say, that wasn't the best of first impressions.”

If it wasn't father then that left Mycroft as the only other option. Though it was very unlikely that Mycroft would be petting him, unless he'd caused him a grievous injury of some sort and was trying to make a good impression. Sherlock sincerely hoped he wasn't being watched, he didn't feel fresh enough to be viewed by an entire audience of onlookers. Bloody Mycroft.

“Though, actually I feel like things went a little better than they usually do.”

Sherlock flexed the wool of his fingers in an attempt to feel out his surroundings, and perhaps determine if that was where his injury lay. The sheets felt a little too thick to belong to any sort of hospital and there was a distinct scent of cigarette smoking clouding the air he was then trying to force into his lungs. Victor. It had to be Victor. The realisation brought about a pleasant feeling of warmth that settled itself contentedly against his ribs and, with a soft exhalation of the tension he'd been holding, Sherlock tipped his head back. Honestly, whatever Victor was doing felt rather pleasant and he wasn't ready to wake up just yet so he simply elected to settle back into the pillow. Murmuring something of a greeting before attempting to ease himself back to sleep.

“Sherlock?”

The warmth tightened itself against his ribs, clasping itself around them in a painful manner as the name brought about a spasm of a memory. One of machinery and burning. Of a funeral and Mycroft stuffing his stupid fat face with--

“Sherlock? Hey, try and relax for me.”

A tight, painful spasm coursed through Sherlock's throat. The warmth now firmly pinning his internal organs up against his ribcage in an achingly painful mockery of the pleasant sensation it had once been. However, after what felt to be an age of straining against his own muscles, Sherlock managed to force his eyes open. His vision faltering for a moment before a face came into view above his own, “--Tor?”

“Sorry?” Something mildly rough and pleasantly warm pressed itself around the bone of his forehead, the pressure going some way to clear his vision as he desperately searched for any sort of defining feature, “Sherlock, you're in 221B. You're safe. You're just having a bad dream.”

Sherlock screwed his eyes shut, attempting to swallow against the abrasive texture of his tongue for a moment before something began to soothe across his eyebrow. Which, in all honesty, felt better than it had any right to.

“That's it.” The continued, gentle pressure eased his vision back into normality and Sherlock let himself be soothed by the familiar features of one John Watson. “You back with me?”

“-Rmh.” The detective winced around the sound his rather swollen feeling tongue had reduced to a slurred mumble but rather quickly allowed himself to be reassured by the smile he was offered as, what he could now presume to be John's fingers, progressed from his eyebrow into his hair. Stroking his scalp gently.

“Great.” John shifted, causing Sherlock's body to drift mildly towards him. His attention still very firmly held by the feeling of those calloused fingers massaging his scalp. “Would you like something to drink?” Sherlock closed his eyes, giving into the heaviness his eyelids had taken on, “Sherlock?” As if sensing his new found contentedness, the hand was mercilessly removed from his hair and shifted to his shoulder. An area that, all in all, didn't feel nearly as comforting. “Are you thirsty, Sherlock?”

“Mrm.”

“Yeah?” John shifted again, his hand pressing a little more firmly into the bone of the younger mans shoulder for a moment before he eased off entirely in order to steady the glass of water in his hand, “Alright. Do you reckon you're ready to sit up? I'm a little scared I'll drown you if we try and do it this way.”

In lieu of utilising his poor, dry tongue again Sherlock simply nodded. Gradually beginning to ease himself up against the pillows. However he quickly found himself in need of John's aid and was forced to hold himself half-way to sitting until the doctor had managed to clatter the glass back onto the bedside table and found a relatively painless place to grab. Something which, rather embarrassingly, put a rather large degree of strain on his stomach muscles and prevented them from being of any real use for the rest of the endeavour. Not that John seemed particularly perturbed. The detective wasn't really very heavy, after all. Though this was something he hoped to remedy soon enough.

“Comfy?”

“--umfee.”

“Perfect.” Hiding a fond, near unbridled smile as he twisted to grab the glass once more, John did his very best to hold the thing in a steady hand as he tried to think as little into just how content Sherlock seemed to be to be mollycoddled. It would have been mildly pleasant, were it not for the reason behind it. “Here you are, mate.

John waited patiently until Sherlock had sorted out which hand was going to reach for the glass before turning to fold the flannel he had been using to attempt to ease Sherlock's bruising back onto the table it had come from. Fussing about with the papers that sat there for a moment before a mildly unnerving gurgling noise prompted him to glance back over his shoulder, “Easy.” He murmured, eyeing up the amount of water Sherlock had managed to ingest in a matter of seconds, “Sips, yeah? It'd be a nightmare to get you anywhere quick enough if you throw up now.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in mild annoyance but did as he was told, his eyes following John's hands for a short moment before he realised the doctor was speaking again.

“I uh, I had to take a look at your back, Sherlock.”

The brunette gave a wince as his teeth clinked against the glass that he was still pressing against his lips, his eyes falling to stare intently at the knee John had folded against the bed as he tried to think of something of use to say.

“It wasn't anything serious but you'd been bleeding a little. I just wanted to make sure you hadn't sliced yourself on the way down.”

Thoughts of ugly, twisted wounds displaying the harsh evidence of what he'd had no intention of telling John stained the focus of Sherlock's gaze. Something which prompted John to reach out once more to set a hand against his knee-cap, a vague attempt to the faltering detective present.

“I'm not--” John's tongue betrayed the beating of his heart as it darted to wet nervous lips, “I don't need to know anything more. Not if you don't want me to. But... He realised he was probably gripping Sherlock's knee a little too intently and eased off slightly, earning him the rather odd feeling of the bone bobbing beneath his hand, “I...well I just...”

“It's fine, John.” It wasn't. Of course it wasn't. But it was hardly John's fault. “You'll be my first port of call.”

Some of the tension seemed to seep from between John's shoulders as he gave a tense nod, his thumb continuing to pet the sheet above Sherlock's leg for a brief moment before he seemed to realise what he was doing and removed it. Sitting his hand back against his own thigh where, Sherlock noted, he gradually began to pet his own leg as he spoke, “Anyway.” Sherlock took the moment spent for John to clear his throat to take another sip of water, “I cleaned things up a little for you. Didn't seem like the bandaging was really doing any good so that's all gone. Though, of course, I can redress everything if you'd really like me to.”

Sherlock shook his head no, having no desire to go back to feeling quite so sticky if he could avoid it. Lack of padding be damned.

“Thought not.” The doctor attempted a smile, shifting the hand from his leg to scratch absently at where his moustache had been, “The bleeding turned out to not be anything serious, just a little bit of irritated stitching that should heal up on it's own. If anything does go amiss though, let me know. Or, you know, any other doctor you may be going to.”

“You've seen it now.” Sherlock's voice was oddly low, and tugged painfully at the memory of the last damned phone call they'd shared. Something which John was entirely against dwelling on now that he had the detective back and, more or less, in one piece. Still, that didn't seem to matter as his mind began to drag him back towards the pale, dead eyes of the man before him anyway, “It would make sense to come to you.”

Whilst John's throat wasn't quite co-operating, his hand still was and with it he reached out to rub Sherlock's shin gently. That seeming like a comfortable place to touch whilst he convinced his vocal chords to do something useful.

“John, love?”

Unfortunately they never really got a chance as Mary, barely leaving any time to respond between the rather meagre knock she'd given and her being stood in the room, eyed up the two of them. Something shifting ever so slightly in her expression as she caught sight of Sherlock staring back.

“Have you got any sugar in?”

“Uh--” John stood from the bed, blocking Sherlock's view of Mary but giving him an altogether more intimate view of just how the muscles twinged beneath his bare skin as his back very obviously complained about the increase in muscle tension, “Yeah.” He shuttered his skin away once more with cotton, “Possibly.” Sherlock tried for something of an amiable expression from behind his glass as the doctor turned back to face him, Mary's eyes falling rather rapidly to the arm that was now stretched between her and the detective in question, “Do you need anything, Sherlock?” Seemingly oblivious to the fact that it was being watched, John's hand began to pat about for the door handle, “Something to eat, maybe? Bit of toast or something?”

Sherlock's eyes slid to Mary who, noting this, offered a smile and he couldn't help but not that her lips looked remarkably more inviting without their garish adornment. “If you do find the sugar some tea might be pleasant.”

“Tea.” John's eyes followed Sherlock's, his brow creasing mildly as they came to rest in approximately the same positioning, “Coming up.”

**********************

“Interesting man isn't he, your Sherlock?”

“ _My_ Sherlock?” John scoffed into the cupboard he was near sat inside, the search for sugar still very much ongoing, “He's not _mine._ Not by any stretch. In fact, if he's anyone's he's-- ”

“Not the point of the question, John.” Mary chuckled musically, re-crossing her legs under the kitchen table as she eyed up the doctors compact frame, “Though I have to say you do fit wonderfully in there, love. Perhaps we've found you a new talent.”

“Not a big fan of small spaces, if I'm honest.” John muttered, eyeing up the bare cupboard for a little longer before shifting a little more firmly onto his knees to reach towards a couple of cans towards the back. His vague intent being to ensure that they weren't obscuring any sort of sugar from him. “But he's not usually so...unsteady on his feet.” He flinched slightly as his finger brushed against something sharp, using the confines of the cupboard to muffle a sound of distaste.

“But he is, well...different. Isn't he?”

“It's that big brain of his.” John stuck his head further into the, near bare, cupboard. He needed to go shopping. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson would help out. Would that be too much to ask? He couldn't very well up and leave Sherlock now, “Blots out the majority of his common sense.”

Mary shifted, then stood to cross the kitchen to stand beside where John's lower legs protruded from the cupboard. Giving a short chuckle as she eyed up the backs of his calves before stretching onto her tiptoes to open the cupboard that was roughly above the man's head, “Is it uncouth to bring up his diagnosis?”

“His--” The cans decided to jump ship and rolled out of the cupboard door beside the one John's calves then protruded from, hitting Mary square in the toe as they went about obscuring the majority of what the doctor was attempting to say to her, “--have one.”

The nurse glanced down, bag of sugar in hand, at John's upturned face. Catching the very obvious tinge of indignation that was running through his overly expressive features and electing to simply shake her head, “Sorry. Not my place. Seems my mouth's running away with me.” She shifted, causing a few of the cans to clatter finally to the floor, “Found the sugar.”

F or a moment John simply remained awkwardly folded in two,  his eyes  tracking the woman's features until they fell to the cans and he proceeded to stiffly stack them back where they  belonged. Taking a couple of breaths i n before  taking the bait, “Where'd you find it?”

“My mouth?” Mary smiled down at his calves once more, spilling tiny granules of sugar over the counter as she did so.

“The sugar.”

“Cupboard.” The smile fell as Mary watched John retract himself to sit back against his heels, his gaze immediately falling to his finger as he attempted to locate the source of the pain there.

“John, I didn't mean any harm.”

“Mm.”

“John.” A small step forwards closed the space between them and Mary was able to crouch beside him to gently take a hold of the finger. Holding it up towards her eyes as she tried to evaluate the problem, “I just...” She paused for a moment, squeezing the skin lightly, “You know what I'm like. I really didn't mean any harm.”

John realised a soft breath of tension filled air as he watched expert fingers pluck the splinter from his skin, “I know.” He murmured, letting his fingers be curled into a loose fist beneath her hand, “I know. I'm sorry.” After a moment of hesitation John looped his thumb over Mary's knuckles. Wanting to hold on to her as she leant forward to press a soft kiss to his forehead.

“I'm sure we'll get used to one another.” She murmured, shifting to free up a hand which then ended up cupped around John's jawline, “I just can't believe he's back. After all that.”

With another, gentle sigh John reached up to hold onto Mary's hand. Soothing a thumb over the back of it for a moment or two before the low whistling of the kettle drew his attention upwards and he very gradually drew himself to his feet, his leg twinging really quite disparagingly as he did so.

“Tea's ready.”

“Yeah.” Mary reached up from where she remained crouched at John's side, her silent request going unheeded for a long couple of seconds before the doctor finally seemed to get the hint and gingerly helped her to her feet. Accepting the peck she pressed to his cheek with a mild blush before beginning to fuss about with the tea. His attention well and truly focused on the task in hand. Something which allowed Mary a moment to stare idly at the space between his shoulder blades before vacating to the living room, using the mirror there to fuss about with her hair.

“One sugar or two, Mary?”

“Hm?” She glanced over her own shoulder in the mirror briefly before turning her attention to John, “Oh. Don't worry, love. I'll get mine in a second. I'd imagine Sherlock's pretty parched.”

**********************

Almost a week passed before Harry seemed to see fit to visit, something which John was near certain had something to do with the manner in which she studiously avoided looking anywhere near the emaciated detective as he went about his pacing around the building. A habit which he seemed to have picked up during John and Mary's time away at work as, upon returning home a couple of days into Sherlock's recovery, they had nearly suffered a head on collision with the wandering detective after trying to locate the source of a mildly unnerving shuffling sound. One which John had been briefly convinced was some sort of intruder but, upon having locked into defensive mode, had discovered was coming from Sherlock himself. Whose eyes, for whatever reason, had been clamped shut. Even through John's attempts at settling Sherlock down for an impromptu psych evaluation. However Mary had quickly decided they would be of better use upstairs and managed to convince John to leave the detective to shuffle around the flat to his hearts content. Though worry had, predictably, eventually gotten the better of John and he'd managed to sneak his way back downstairs to check on the younger man. Having to take a long couple of panicked minutes to locate him before he eased him from the sofa cushions to bed. Where John had spent a few hours curled next to him. Though, of course, if asked he would deny any memory of such. He'd simply been trying to make sure he wasn't about to run into traffic. That was all. 

Admittedly he'd hoped that that would be the last of it. But of course, four days later with his sister sitting in the room, Sherlock seemed intent on keeping up the habitual pacing. Though he did grant John the small mercy of keeping his eyes open, even if it was blatantly obvious he wasn't actually looking at anything in particular.

“Sherlock, love?” Mary shot John a look in an attempt to ward him off of staring once more, “Do you fancy some tea?”

Feigning having suddenly fallen deaf, Sherlock continued his slightly laboured trip around the flat. The motion of movement soothing him to some degree as he worked on assembling what he could of his mind-palace. He didn't particularly like the audience he could feel that had filled the room but there was little he could do to remedy that whilst his mind was so saturated with disorder.

“He's like a bloody caged animal.”

Apparently John's sister had taken the bait, then. No matter. Sherlock was entirely aware how he was spoken about when he wasn't party to the conversation. Still it made it all the more difficult to avoid mentioning the fact that Harry had slept in the clothes she now sat in which, despite the heady cloud of perfume, spelt out her night of drinking the evening before.

“John, can't you take him outside? It's—I'm sure that's not right.”

“Shut up, Harry.”

Finding the stairs underfoot, Sherlock felt safe in smiling quietly to himself as a rush of compassion threatened to put his organisation on hold. He really was terribly fond of John Watson. Perhaps he'd find a different method of soothing the aching, something that would allow the doctor to put his mind a little more at ease.

The commanding scent of musk and rose that clouded the familiar scent of 221B lured Sherlock back into a more present state of consciousness as he cast a critical eye around John's room. Or what had once been John's room. It seemed now that it had been somewhat taken over by the woman he was undoubtedly sharing his bed with, perhaps she'd moved in. It wouldn't be unlike him to have not noticed, after all. Still he couldn't say he would be necessarily pleased if that were the case. The flat was, obviously, John's as well as it was his but the idea of someone else moving in with the other man wasn't entirely appealing. With a soft, resigned sigh he moved instead to run his fingers over the faded floral blanket that sat across the end of the bed. The stupid thing looking entirely absurd against the ridiculously neat hospital corners John would have created at some point. Undoubtedly it was something of Mary's, along with the leg of a pair of pyjama trousers that hung limply from beneath the stack of pillows on the right. She was no longer sleeping in John's, then. That probably wasn't terribly promising on the moving in front.

“Sherlock?”

With all the subtly a particularly waif-like detective could muster whilst snooping in another couples bedroom, Sherlock withdrew his fingers from their bedding. Tucking them against the bandaging of his other hand as he turned to catch the glimmer of sympathy that now seemed to permanently sit behind the older man's eyes.

“You back with us, mate?”

Sherlock nodded slightly, the unfamiliar scent of the room beginning to settle into tense balls behind his temples as he worked to keep himself as still as possible.

“You probably heard the whole tea palaver, right?” John began to edge his way past the prone detective, his tone remaining surprisingly breezy despite that damned twist of unease Sherlock seemed to be unable to prevent marring his features, “I don't think it managed to get through the jumper so I'm alright.. Still, I'll be putting a wash on later. I'll come and get your stuff.”

The sound of fabric rustling behind him gave Sherlock reason to turn around, batting his eyelashes against the scent for a moment or two more before his gaze fell to where John was rummaging about in his wardrobe. His discarded jumper crumpled in a rather sorry looking heap on the left side of the bed.

“I assume it's mostly pants. You've been changing your pants, right?”

Why on earth was John asking after his underwear? “I'm not particularly keen on wallowing around in days old underwear, John.” Sherlock took a moment to glanced over the almost well-fitting shirt that John had apparently been wearing beneath his jumper, his eyes catching on a small puddle that sat below where his left nipple was attempting to make an appearance.

“Well that's something, I suppose.” John chuckled good-naturedly, shaking out the jumper he had selected. And though this really seemed to serve no purpose whatsoever it managed to unwind the tension against Sherlock's temples somewhat, something which felt rather too pleasant to question to any degree. “Mind focusing those brilliant thoughts elsewhere, Sherlock? My nipple isn't really worthy of that much of your attention.”

“Are you lactating?”

“Not unless I'm a rather wonderful medical anomaly.” The blond offered Sherlock a smirk, taking the mild confusion that spread over his features as an opportunity to begin to tug the jumper over his head, “Lactating tea.” He chuckled, voice muffled by the layer of wool in front of his face, “I'm actually not so sure that would be as wonderful as it sounds.”

It seemed to take the detective a moment to realise the joke but, eventually, John received a rather dry snort that he considered to be somewhat of a victory. It'd been a while since Sherlock had done anything much beyond pace, it was nice to have him back in the land of the living.

Unfortunately before he could dwell on this any further a rather unnerving clattering dragged his attention back to the two women downstairs, the near unrestrained smile he had been working on dropping without a trace, “Harry?” He secured his jumper into the correct positioning before beginning to stride for the door, Sherlock trailing in his wake, “Mary? Everything okay?”

“Oh, John.”

One glance across the room set something cold loose in Sherlock's chest, rooting him to the spot in quiet contemplation as John moved to grab his phone from the table.

“What happened?”

Mary's eyes, which she was then using to follow the doctor about the room, were an unusual shade of pink. Sherlock hadn't been aware that the two women were quite so close. It seemed odd that Mary, as a registered nurse, should be crying over what looked to be a collapse of some sort. If they truly were as close as the crying suggested it wouldn't be too much of a stretch to assume that she would be aware of her alcoholism, thus making her at least glancingly aware that she wasn't in the best of health. Though, one would hope, she'd be aware of the complications at a more intimate degree given her formal training.

“Sherlock?”

S herlock glanced to where John was shrugging on his coat, blinking away the final pink- tinged  shroud of his latest deduction  in order to take in his expression properly. 

“ Do you need me to call someone, Sherlock?”

“ For whom?”

The space between John's eyebrows creased for a moment before he silently crossed the room to  crouch beside his sister, assuring that she was secured on her side. 

“I'll stay.” Mary muttered, now crouched a short distance away from John, “It'll save you  from  worrying, love.”

For a moment John seemed to hesitate, his hand moving to assess Harry's pulse once more before he gave a slightly lopsided shrug, “If you've got the time to spare.” He glanced up towards Sherlock, his expression infuriatingly missing any features that might have allowed the detective to determine which emotion he was then experiencing, “I just want to make sure I'm not murdered by Mycroft, Sherlock. I know you don't need babysitting.”

His own expression must have been somewhat unpleasant, if John's apology was anything to go by, but before he could do anything truly effective to remedy this problem, a team of paramedics arrived to assist with Harry. Who lolled rather unnervingly as they began to ease her onto a stretcher, Sherlock found himself glancing away towards the ambulance that was parked outside, bright bursts of light illuminating his features periodically in swathes of red and blue. A phenomenon which Mary turned to observe quietly, her own expression gradually shifting from mildly pinkened amiability to one of carefully schooled neutrality as she listened to the sirens fade into the rest of the bustle of London. 

"I suppose congratulations are in order, Mr. Holmes."


End file.
